


drive by

by masongrey



Series: drive by [1]
Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Coffee, College AU, Lots of Angst, M/M, crappy family members, haha what do you expect from me, it gets serious, lots of cameos, roadtrip au, slightly silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-12 07:29:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 31,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4470560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masongrey/pseuds/masongrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a tap on my shoulder just as I’m beginning to leave the common room.</p><p>“I hate to bother you, but I have something to ask,” an awfully familiar voice rumbles from somewhere behind me. “Did it hurt?”<br/>- - -<br/>Or the fairly self-indulgent RPDR AU with plenty of coffee, an amateur drag queen, a kidnapping, lots of cameos and other general silliness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. did it hurt

**Author's Note:**

> this is over on my tumblr up to chapter five and it's still a major WIP. i like to have things on here because it's easier for me to organize. hope you like it, i'll try to update as frequently as I can :)
> 
> i'm a total sucker for kudos and comments :P please don't be afraid of me, i'm super nice

I let out a long, pent up sigh and readjust my textbooks on my hip as I swivel around to face none other than Matt James, the only person at Cobbler University that I honestly despise more than toads, canned sardines and lung cancer combined.

“You know,” he intones gravely, completely solemn, “when Satan pushed you out of his asshole?”

I couldn’t pretend to keep my mouth closed if I tried.

Well then.

Good old Matt, never failing to find new and altogether wonderful ways to convince me of the extreme depravity of the typical nineteen year old boy’s mind.

With a deep breath and a quiet mustering of all of my combined anger, lack of sleep, and frustration I sent my very best all-the-white-hot-fury-of-the-sun death glare straight up into his dumbly smirking face. Instead of flinching, or spontaneously combusting (what are we, as a society, without hope?), his left fucking eyebrow quirks up.

“Problem, Jason?” He muses, acting about as innocent as a nun doing squats in a cucumber field.

Ah, the depths and depravity the man has already forced me into.

_A nun? Really, Jason?_

As my morality sags under the weight of its newest burden, I turn to leave, knowing full well that during a Matt James encounter you only have about a forty five second time window to chance an escape, but he slides smoothly in front of me, suavely and effectively blocking my path to the door.

Goddamn his agile footwork and maneuvering.

With a lazy smile he looks me up and down.

I just love being objectified without my intent or permission.

“Get out of my face, James. I don’t have time for your shit.” I snap, jutting my hip out and sliding my textbooks into my worn messenger bag. I then proceed to valiantly barricade my arms across my chest to protect myself from any more potential marauding eyeball action.

His eyes water and his chin quivers as he contorts his face weirdly.

“My shit? Jason, I’m shocked, hurt, tragically disappointed in your heartbreaking cruelty! More than that, even. I’m emasculated! You’ve fatally wounded my pride! I can feel my testosterone slipping away from me as we speak!” He blubbers, his rasping voice stretched and drawn out in a strange, sad, drawl.

“As if. Your ego could survive a bullet to the head, an overdose of horse tranqs and a fall from a twenty story building, all within six minutes, and it would still be perfectly fucking operational.”

It’s his turn to blink and gape.

“Haven’t you ever been told that if you hold a face for too long, it’ll get stuck that way?” I coo, reveling in his shocked expression. “Wouldn’t that be a shame.“ I snort out a laugh, shaking my head. I know better than to fall for his shitty alligator tears, the demented fart. “Now get out of my way, asshole. I actually have someplace to be.”

“Right.” He croons, recovering from the injury to his pride just as quickly as I had expected. “As you tend to be so busy on Thursday nights. Or Thursday nights before winter break, for that matter.”

He crosses his arms right back, that pretentious left eyebrow still fucking grazing his hairline. Damn his accuracy when it comes to my virtually non existent social life.

“Or,” he sings, his eyes dancing with mirth and mischief, “are you so hot and bothered because you’re missing a hot date with your battery operated boyfriend this fine evening?” His eyebrows waggle, daring me to take his carefully laid out bait. Oh, how I want to.

And so I do.

When will I learn?

“Don’t you have better things to do than pester a decent, compassionate, hardworking human being? And by things I mean Matthew Sanderson. Or Kurtis Dam. Or Santino Rice. Or, really, anything with a pulse and an asshole.” I snapped, growing more and more distressed every minute.

No need to mention how proud I am about that little doozy.

“Aw, Jason. Are you trying to tell me that you don’t have an asshole?”

I’m sure they can feel the heat burning off of my cheeks all the way in Canada. I grit my teeth. Now it’s fucking personal. Insult my hair, insult my clothes, even insult my impeccable taste for fashion, insult me all you want to, but you will fucking leave my asshole out of it.

I stalk forward, driving my point home by jabbing him in the chest at every word, much to the amusement of the entire left half of the commons room, which is surely zoned in on this badly drawn, technicolor spectacle which is now my life.

“I. Have. Had. Enough. Of. Your. Crap. Matt. James!”

“Well,” he murmurs, pursing his lips and nodded thoughtfully, the smirk never quite leaving his eyes, “that sure was hot.”

With a groan, I elbow past him, hauling tail to the door. “Jason, wait!” He sounds different. There’s something piercingly sad and desperate about his cry.

Satan only knows why I turn back around and humor him.

“What.” I snap, much to the glee of the entire right half of the commons room, who have all stopped what they were doing in order to join the left side in speculating wildly on my spectacle of a life.

“If you really feel that way.” He takes a step back, holding up his hands innocently, widening his eyes. The nerve. The nerve of that boy.

“Fuck off.” I call over my shoulder, already three steps out the door.

“Jason! Wait!” He shouts after me. “I didn’t ask you my question yet!”

But I’m already running all the way back to my dorm.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As soon as I’m inside, my whole body lets out a sigh of relief. I can almost feel the Advil and oncoming movie marathon’s soothing affects on my psyche already. If I get lucky, and get the timing right before I leave for home tomorrow, I won’t have to deal with that douchebag for two whole weeks.

“Brian?” I call, depositing my bag on the sofa in the middle of the small living room the three of us share. “Danny?”

They’re not home, but there’s a hasty note pinned to the minifridge.

_Jason,_

_gone out dearie._

_Couldn’t bear to hear aaron and justin going at it again._

_That’s the tenth consecutive demon summoning this week, holy shit._

_If he doesn’t see you before_

_you leave tomorrow, danny says merry christmas to you._

_I could care less,_

_see ya next year cunt_

_love bri_

_(ps left my noise canceling headphones on the couch for you babe, just in case barbie and ken start doing the do some more)_

Ah Brian, ever endearing.

Justin and Aaron, the neighbors. Lately they’ve been stuck in a bit of a nasty rut. Fucking, fighting, fucking, fighting, fucking and so on and so on and so on.

I pop a couple of Advil down with a healthy swig of lukewarm chocolate milk and peel my sweaty jeans off of my body. God, I should really start running again. If a ten minute jog from the commons to our room in the middle of December makes me break a sweat, I must have really let myself go.

I survey my surroundings, I have a couch, a television, no midterms left to study for, a suitcase that’s already packed and ready for my journey back home and a netflix account.

I’m tired but not tired enough to warrant actually attempting to sleep. And I have some coursework to finish over the break, but not enough coursework to actually warrant attempting it. So Netflix it is.

I’m about thirty minutes into the latest episode of Bob’s Burgers when I fall asleep.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I wake to my phone vibrating frantically. It’s Danny. He’s been trying to reach me for quite a bit. I bite back my guilt and scan my messages.

(10:45 pm) chola-bitch: fuckin party

(11:36 pm) chola-bitch: cn’t find my key jason

(11:48 pm) chola-bitch: my key’s at home n the counterrrrrrrrr

(11:50 pm) chola-bitch: really plastered rn lol

(12:21 pm) chola-bitch: b home n a little, just have to finb bri

(12:30 am) chola-bitch: get the dor for us pleafe? B back n t

I love Danny but the careless way he abuses the English language when he’s drunk kind of makes the lit major in me want to punch him in the jaw sometimes.

There’s one from Brian too.

(11:44 pm) russian hooker: fuckn drhunk hokre fuhgn lobve hyou cunt bnmbmnzdfkokoopp fuck

There’s also one from Max, who was supposed to have supervised Brian to make sure that he stayed the fuck away from alcohol, and a few from Other Brian, who was also supposed to keep Roommate Brian away from the keg.

(11:12 pm) Max malanphy: i would like to extend my sincerest apologies

(10:53 pm) other brian: need backup dude

(11:36 pm) other brian: so um hey

(11:42 pm) other brian: tomorrow is a new day

I sigh and send out a silent prayer that Bri and Danny are alright, and that they have a safe walk home from whatever frat house they’re holed up in this time. I also pray that the ’t’ Danny sent should be deciphered as ‘ten minutes’ and not 'twenty minutes’ or, god forbid, 'two hours’.

I take another swig of milk and follow it up with a pinch to my cheeks in an effort to keep myself awake until those two drunken idiots get back.

Fifteen minutes of mindless television consumption later and there’s a knock at the door.

I jump up, swing the door open with a jolt, spread my arms wide and brace myself to be embraced by my two very favorite drunken hooligans.

“Where the fuck’ve you been?” I snipe happily, squinting my eyes shut against the bright florescent light of the corridor. I don’t expect a decent answer to the question, but I ask it all the same.

“Jason, I’m flattered. But I’m going to need you to put on some pants before you say anything else.”

Fucking Matt.

I’ve already slammed the door before he can get a word in likewise. How the hell does he know where my dorm is? He knocks again, and again, and again.

“Jason? Jason, it’s okay, I didn’t see anything important.”

I swear I clench my teeth so hard I can hear my molars starting to crack.

“TAKE A HIKE MATT, OR A HINT. FUCK OFF.”

He does. Or at least he gets really, really quiet. Which I’ll take over hearing his voice any day of the week.

Fucking sweaty legs.

Fucking boxer-briefs.

Fucking roommates.

Fucking MATT.

I stomp over to the couch, snatching Brian’s noise-cancelling headphones and then I proceed to fall into a very angry REM-sleep until I get woken up blearily three hours later by a squeal and a drunken pounding on the door.

Danny shouts 'PARTY!’ trips over a pair of shoes that are tucked by the door and falls flat on his face, laughing hysterically until he starts to cry, while Brian runs drunkenly and makes it halfway to the bathroom before tossing his cookies all over the wall and floor. He then curls up on the ground and immediately falls asleep. Max waves goodbye and ducks away with a sheepish grin and a mumbled apology. Other Brian is nowhere to be seen.

I drag Danny to his bed, and within seconds he’s completely lost to the world. The guy could sleep through a shark attack and wake up lying peacefully on the wreckage of the boat from Jaws with a yawn, a dazzling smile and a half eaten leg.

Next I pull an equally sleepy and drunk Brian to his bed, where I roll him onto his side and plop the noise-canceling headphones over his ears (the ghouls next door have started up again and Brian has an alarmingly bad ability to sleep through porno-worthy sex noises).

I blearily make a mental note to make sure they’re both still alive in the morning before I leave.

I also trudge back to the living room and scrub with a sponge and a bottle of bleach until the vomit is cleaned up.

Roommates, gotta love them.

I barely crawl to the couch before passing out.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next time I wake, there’s a sweaty hand clamped over my mouth.

I blink.

Holy shit, there’s a hand clamped over my mouth.

I blink again.

This could mean one of two things. On one hand, it could mean that Danny and Brian have somehow pulled themselves out of their stupors and collectively brought together enough brain-power to pull some shitty ass prank on me. Or it could mean that there’s someone else in the dorm. And said other party has his hand clamped over my fucking mouth. Which is just dandy.

I catch a whiff of a rancid foot smell and a suspiciously sock-like blindfold is pulled over my eyes. Still too shocked to squirm, I try to be still and absorb my surroundings. This is my room, these are my feet attached to my ankles, that is definitely a hand over my mouth, ah, fuck, nope, nope, nope, yep it’s a sock in my mouth now. There’s a fucking sock in my mouth and fuck, it tastes like dirt feels.

Nothing happens for a while and, in spite of myself, and literally everything I have been taught about self-defense, I start dozing off again.

It’s probably Brian. He probably had pot at the party, and he gets weird on pot. I try to relax a little, until there’s a hand on my foot, SLIDING UP MY ANKLE, climbing up TO MY KNEE. Holy mother tucker.

“GEROFF ME! WAPE!” I yell, my voice considerably muffled and warped by the sock, “WAPE!” I squirm and kick until I break my legs free of his grasp and land a solid kick to what I presume is his face.

“Jesus Christ! Jason, calm down!”

Wait… that voice… you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

A large, calloused hand pulls the blindfold down. Sure enough, it’s him, blood pouring from his nose, eyes the color of moldy bread glaring down at me.

“SUM-VA-BIFH MATT!” I thrash forward again, this time aiming for his family jewels. He swears sharply, buckling over as my blow hits home.

I spit the sock out of my mouth and jump to my feet.

“HOW IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS HOLY DID YOU GET IN HERE? And WHY? WHY ARE YOU HERE? You can’t just go breaking into people’s dorms and putting your hands over people’s mouths in the dark of night, Matt! JESUS, FUCK. Where the fuck are Brian and Dan-” I try to run for the door but I trip over a pile of textbooks and crash to the ground.

“No time to explain.” He grits out, grabbing my duffel bag from the ground near my feet. He swings my messenger bag over his left shoulder and then proceedes to swing me over his left.

“Let me down! Let me down! RAPE! RAPE! RAPE- MMFFGHHHG MMFGGGRHRRR!” My yells swiftly turn to muffled growls as he stuffs the sock gag back into my mouth, and hoists my wriggling form higher up on his shoulder.

How a bleeding and bruised Matt got a screaming, gagged, half-dressed boy who was slung over his shoulder and hell-bent on destroying him, out of that dormitory filled with, oh, a hundred or so people, without raising any alarms, or getting himself caught on any security cameras, I will never truly understand.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He bounds down the front walk, heading for an old, and beautifully restored antique Dodge truck. (Great, just one more reason to hate him.) He throws me in the passenger’s seat along with my duffel and my messenger bag and then slides into the driver’s seat, peeling swiftly out of the parking lot. The second he stops at the stop sign, I dive for the door handle. But he’s faster, a sharp click indicating that I’m now locked in. He reaches over and pulls my seatbelt taunt across me.

“Wouldn’t want to get a ticket, would we?” He smirks.

Great. Fucking great. The little fuckwad has gone from psychopathic kidnapper right back to normal.

I reach over the console and slap him in the face as hard as I can.

“What the hell?” Matt yells which is quickly followed by a rather descriptive set of expletives, as he tries to stop up the blood that is now pouring from his nose.

“What the hell? What the hell?” My voice rises steadily louder. “You do not get to what the hell me, Matt. Not now, not when I flag down the next police car, not when you go to jail for this, not ever.” There’s a harsh finality to my words that makes him squirm in his seat.

And then silence. No witty quips. No sneering sarcastic remarks. No Matt James fire, no Jason Dardo charm. Nothing but my breath working desperately in and out of my lungs, and his slow, steady sighs.

Finally, I spit it out.

“Why Matt. Why did you do this? Like, I don’t like you, but I trust you to not fucking kidnap me, you know? Oh wait, obviously you don’t know. Or we wouldn’t be here.”

“I’m going to my parent’s for winter break.” He growls, his face hard. I’m definitely more interested than I should be about what he’s hiding. “So are you, actually.”

“Why?” My voice is acid, sinking into the refurbished upholstery and burning through onto the road. His face crumples and I swallow my guilt, beat back my compassion.

“They invited me and my girlfriend over for winter break.” He shrugs, like what he’s said is no big deal.

“You don’t have a fucking girlfriend.”

“No shit Sherlock.”

“You’re gay.”

“Again- no shit, Sherlock.”

“So why the fuck am I here then? Sherlock.” The car goes silent and I cock my head, considering.

“Well, my dad fucking hates me, my mother couldn’t care either way.” He shrugs again, scathing and rueful. “Guess it’s about time they come to terms with the fact that I don’t have a girlfriend and that I won’t be getting one anytime soon.”

Then we’re quiet again as I process. It settles heavily on me, suddenly: I feel bad for him, for this complete and total asshole. But I don’t freak out; I don’t try to get out of the car again. I just let him drive and I think.

“Hand me something for my damned nose, would you? And would you put on some pants, Jason? Jesus. ” His scrutinous gaze never leaves the road in front of him as he gestures vaguely to his bloody shirt, his wounded nose.

Yeah, I’m pretty fucking proud of that one.

I open my duffel, rooting through it. I’ve got something very special in mind. I grab a pair of big bird pajama pants and a box of tampons. I waggle a tampon in front of his nose. He shakes his head, his low laugh of disbelief morphing into a bloody gargle.

He’s obviously expecting me to offer him a different option, but after a few minutes of waiting patiently, to no avail, he snaps.

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” He barks. “Why do you fucking have those? What the hell?”

“They’re for my sister. She makes me buy them and sneak them home because mom won’t let her use anything but pads. And anyways, you’re sure as hell not going to use my clothes for your blood, dumbass.” I snap. Although it isn’t a particularly snappish snap.

He sighs, looking down at his bloody shirt. I wave the tampon tantalizingly in front of him, biting back a laugh.

“Alright.” Resignation and regret is dripping from his tired voice, but I sense a spark of something else, humor, perhaps? “Jam 'er in,” he grumbles.

And this time I can not restrain my laughter.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This time I awake in the parking lot of a 7-11, two cups of hot coffee sitting on the console and a half eaten blueberry Danish sitting on my lap. I’m using a balled-up sweatshirt as a pillow.

It takes me a second to register where I am and what the fuck I’m doing here.

Matt is tapping the steering wheel nervously.

He gestures to one of the coffees and I narrow my eyes.

“This isn’t spiked is it? No drugs?” I inspect it carefully.

“Who do you think I am, Jason? Some kind of creep? Just drink the damn coffee.”

“A creep? Well, yeah, that’s the opinion of you I got when you stalked me, broke into my dorm, hog tied me, gagged me and proceeded to kidnap me. So my most sincere apologies for taking a few precautions.” I unroll the window and throw the coffee out. The violent splash is followed by a long, poignant silence.

“Sorry it’s so cold,” he mutters. “We’ve been parked for a while.”

Another long, poignant silence, during which I tried my damndest not to shiver, my teeth chattering ever so slightly.

“I’ll go get you another coffee,” he says as he slams the door shut, trying to hide his on setting blush as he walks into the 7-11, leaving the key dangling in the ignition.

If I want to, if I really want to, I could jump over and drive away. I could head for the nearest cop and be back home before he would even notice my absence.

He can’t be that stupid, can he?

No, if he wants me here, he obviously wants it to be by my choice.

_It’s a little late for that you fucking psycho._

I sigh, shoving the danish off of my lap. In a few minutes he’s back with another danish, this one cream cheese, and a new coffee.

“You should probably call your parents.” He gestures vaguely to a telephone booth across the parking lot. “I’ll wait here.”

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I’m standing at a payphone in the parking lot watching the snow gently fall to the ground.

I just got off the phone with an extremely hungover Danny. I told him that I had ended up having to leave early and that I would explain when I got back so, “sorry and merry Christmas and lock the door next time when you get home and check to make sure Brian is not dead, please and don’t you dare let him drink again you terrible bastard.”

I’ll have to save the destruction of Max and Other Brian for a later date.

Then I call my parents and tell them that something vague and important has come up at school, and that I will be home a couple of days late, and that I might miss Christmas.

Missing Christmas. Because daddy’s little asshole needs to pwove a fucking point.

I still am not quite sure what exactly it is about Matt’s plea that is so appealing, not having to put up with my own barely tolerant parents for two whole weeks, or getting a free vacation to a ski lodge in hoity toity Denver.

What has become of me?

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“How were the ‘rents?” he asks as he revs up the car.

I chug some coffee, the bags under my eyes no longer caring if it’s spiked or not.

“The usual. Uninterested and apathetic.” I grab my half of the first Danish and shove it into my mouth. That earns me a snort.

“What?” I protest soon after I wash the pastry down with another gulp of the coffee. He just shakes his head, chuckling as he pulls out of the parking lot and onto the snowy road.

“I’m hungry and I’ve been kidnapped so I’m even hungrier on top of that!” I whine soon after I finished my coffee. He gestured to the cream cheese Danish sitting between us, uneaten.

I take a giant bite, a deep breath and began my first line of questioning.

“Where the fuck are we going again?”

“My parents’ house, in Denver.”

Wow, I didn’t expect our eventual location to be so easy to explain.

Here comes the big one. “Why, Matt? Why?”

He took a moment to reach up and brush the snow out of his dusky blonde hair, a deep blush spreading over his face. “I already told you. I may have, told them that I, uh, had a, uh, girlfriend.”

“So you kidnapped me to play your girlfriend?”

“I told you, I didn’t kidnap you!” He snapped. He blushed again, darting his eyes from the road to me and back again, he sighed. “Come on. Three days. Please Jason?”

“I am _not_ a girl. Holy shit. No. No. Nope. No-itty no no. Couldn’t you have kidnapped someone else? Any one of your fuckbuddies?” This is completely and utterly ridiculous.

“Well my, uh, ‘fuckbuddies’ aren’t quite the kind of people that you typically take home to meet your parents. And none of them, uh, do what you do either.” I don’t think I have seen Matt blush so much, ever.

Holy shit. He wants me to do drag and pretend to be his girlfriend so his parents won’t think he’s gay. Great fucking plan right there.

“What, the drag? Holy shit Matt. Drag is not even remotely close to looking like an actual woman. What the fuck are you thinking? My drag is intense burlesque at the very least. I do not do daytime realness.”

“I know that.” He blushes and I barely have time to think about how the fuck he’s seen me do drag before he’s continuing. “That’s not the point. The point is supposed to be that, like, it doesn’t matter what the person I’m with looks like, it’s about who they are, you know? So just be nice and shit and they should really like you and, if things go according to plan, the last day you won’t put on drag and they’ll flip shit and then we will leave and they’ll have a shit load to think about.”

I sigh, running a hand through my hair.

“I do drag once a week, at an amateur’s club, in the dark. That does not mean that I am a woman, or that I am prepared to lie to your parents and stay in their house under false pretenses so that you can come out to them. I am also sort of a conceited, cynical asshole. And this conceited, cynical asshole is not eloping with you, or pretending to date you, or any of that Matt. No. no. no. no. no! Also, don’t know if you got the message or not, but I have a penis.”

“You just have to meet my parents and stay over the weekend and then we make our statement and run like hell and then I’ll take you to your parents house free of charge. Come on Jason! You’re the only person I know that can do this!” He’s frustrated now, his voice rising desperately.

“Give me five good reasons, Matt. Five. And I will consider it.” I sip my coffee, waiting expectantly.

“One, I am ruggedly handsome. Two, I am fantastically hilarious and charming. Three, I have been told that I am fantastic in bed. Four, I do a rocking Zoolander impression. Five, it won’t cost you a cent.” My mouth falls open yet again.

“You cannot be serious. You CANNOT be serious. One, gross. Two, puke. Three, I WOULD NEVER SLEEP WITH YOU, EVER. If I won the lottery and the only way I could claim the money was by sleeping with you, I would pass on the money. If I could become the ruler of the world, but I had to kiss you first, I wouldn’t do it. If I were to be executed by firing squad if I didn’t have sex with you, I would choose the firing squad. If a fricking elephant wearing a high heel was about to step on my chest and I could only stop it by fucking around with you—”

“Okay, okay. I get the picture. Although me thinks the lady doth protest too much.” He shoots me a wry glance, blue eyes twinkling.

“Four, I’m listening.” I plow on, ignoring his brutish comment. “Five, it sure as hell better not cost me a cent. And I’m not a fucking woman.”

I’m not exactly a fucking man either, but he really doesn’t need to know that.

“Now do it. Do your Zoolander impression.” I actually can’t wait to hear this.

“Only if you admit that I am ruggedly handsome and quite beddable.”

Beddable? What is this, some 18th century bodice buster romance?

This time it’s my wry glance and eyebrow raise. “Never.”

Another long, awkward silence.

“Hey Jason?”

“Yeah?”

“Have you ever wondered if there was more to life other than being really, really, ridiculously good looking?” He turns and gives me the Magnum smolder.

I guffaw, slapping my knee.

“Perfect!” I croaked out through my wild laughter. “Perfect!”

“Have I just entered an alternate universe, or did you just crack a smile for me?”

And then, as quickly as my laughter started, it dies.

He smirks, turning back to the snowy road and on we drive.

“Okay,” I finally mutter, clapping my hands together. “Tell me about the rest of your terrible fucking plan in detail.”

He snickers. “It’s not _that_ terrible.”

“Well, considering step one of the plan was kidnapping and breaking and entering, and part two involves coming out to your probably asshole parents with a huge lie and an amateur drag queen, I’m sure it can’t really get too much better.”

He snickers again.

“You know,” he nods thoughtfully, “you’re not wrong.”


	2. periwinkle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> going shopping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i'm going to go ahead and spam post until chapter five <3 enjoy dolls

We stop for lunch at McDonalds and Matt insists we go inside.

“The line is way too long,” he mutters as he drags me, big bird pajamas and all, through the freezing parking lot.

“I’m from Atlanta, bitch.” I remind him as we slide into the booth, teeth chattering. “If I put on every item of clothing that I own, I still wouldn’t be dressed warmly enough for this fucking weather.”

He grins, flashing his teeth. “It only gets colder from here on out darlin’,” he drawls in a syrupy mockery of a typical southern twang.

I grit my teeth and focus my sudden annoyance on trying to move a fry into my mouth using only telekinesis. Finally the protesting of my stomach forces me to abandon the useless endeavor and I snag the fry with my hands, tossing it into my mouth.

This McDonalds is truly a classic, complete with a slight sheen of stickiness that clings to every available surface, half-dead employees and shady men lurking in stained white t-shirts and trucker hats.

I do appreciate the change of scenery though. Of all the freaking things that gorilla grabbed when he slung me over his shoulder, he managed to leave my phone, the most crucially important thing I own, behind. After about two hours of listening to some weird, moany EDM music mix and staring listlessly out the window, carving my eyes out with a melon baller began to look pretty damn entertaining.

“So,” I start, taking a long sip of a fairly flat cup of Diet Coke, “how exactly do you plan on getting me shit to wear?”

Matt bites his lip, tracing patterns in the ketchup on his tray with a stray fry. He shrugs, popping the fry into his mouth.

“I dunno, I thought you would have stuff.”

I tip my head back to thoroughly inspect the stark white ceiling tiles with a sigh.

“Do you?” he finally breaks the silence, tossing a straw wrapper at me. I dodge it with a scowl.

“Um, yeah. Sure. I just packed a trunk full of my best drag for my trip home to see my highly religious parents who understand that I ‘live a different lifestyle from them’ but do not approve of my 'choices in the said lifestyle’. They don’t even fucking know I do drag at all, Matt. They barely accept that I’m gay. Barely.”

Visions of my intensely catholic mother finding out that I like to dress up as a woman dance in my head and I shiver, pressing myself farther back into the sticky rubber of the booth.

Matt’s brow works into a frown as he slurps noisily from his cup.

“Well,” he says as he stabs his straw up and down, rattling the ice, “we really need to get you, like, an initial outfit. Then you can just borrow shit from my sister. She’s spending Christmas break in Paris with her latest euro trash boy toy this year.” The mocking sneer in Matt’s voice makes the corners of my mouth twitch up a little. At least he realizes how ridiculous his family sounds.

“Two problems, hotshot. One, makeup. I have none. Two, won’t your parents notice if I’m wearing your sister’s clothes?” Matt cringes, folding back a little as I snark. I regret my tone instantly. He hasn’t spent enough time around me to realize that I’m honestly just used to the fast and effective way that verbal-sniping gets my point across.

_He’ll figure it out soon enough, or he’ll toughen the fuck up._

“Trust me, my parents spend way too much time up their own entitled asses to register that my sister even wears clothes, let alone owns them. And um, you don’t really need makeup, do you?”

I toss my head so far back when I laugh that my forehead nearly touches my ass. The stupidity is nearly suffocating.

“Mattie, honey, if we’re really going through this, I am going to need some fucking makeup,” I snap as I sober up, folding my hands on the table.

Matt’s eyebrows rise impossibly high as he bristles from my sharply patronizing tone, but there is no way in hell I am backing down from this anytime soon.

“Makeup,” I demand. “Or you will be introducing Jason, not Jasonella.”

As soon as the words are out of my mouth I regret them. I might as well have just pointed the gun at my own head, because I have just handed him a new round of ammunition.

_Jasonella? That’s the best shit you could come up with? Really queen?_

“Jasonella?” He snorts, kicking his feet up and down so hard that the table shakes. “That’s your drag name? Jason-fucking-ella? Of all the fucking things?” He can barely manage words through the gleeful tears that are streaming down his face.

I bite my lip, working it nervously between my teeth. My lack of a drag name is sort of a soft spot.

“It’s not Jasonella, dumbass. It’s, um, well, I don’t really have one? Like I’ve never performed officially, so I didn’t really need to make one up? I never found the right one, I guess,” I shrug.

Matt’s interest is clearly piqued, his face is bright. I duck down a little, tucking my hair behind my ear.

“I’ve been there, though. To the club where you do drag. I’ve seen you onstage before.”

I swear to god this asshole is going down. But not before he takes my dignity, kicking and screaming, down with him.

“I’m not official or anything.” The admission burns as it slips out of my lips and I stare down at the floor. “I just fill in for the regulars every once in a while.”

“But you said you did it weekly, right?” His eyebrows tangle together in confusion and I feel a little sick.

“I lied okay? I lied. My friend Danny is sort of dating the owner and so I perform there sometimes.” _Way to play it cool, Jason. Good job, idiot._

Matt nods slowly, something unreadable that’s edging closer and closer to pity slipping behind his eyes. We fall silent. I hate pity, I always have. Pity and indifference, the two worst fucking things. The dull roar of the McDonalds washes over us. I stare down at my feet, kicking them up and down awkwardly.

Matt clears his throat loudly and when I look up his eyes are shining.

“What’s your favorite color?” he asks, jabbing in my general direction with his straw and a small smile.

“Purple?” I offer, watching his reaction carefully.

“I’ve got it. Plum!” His eyes twinkle.

“No fucking way.”

“I’ve always secretly wanted to date a girl named Plum.”

“Nope.”

“Okay. Hmm… . Lavender? Very rich-bitch?”

“I hate it, but I don’t hate it hate it.”

“But you do hate it a little?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm,” he’s turned his attention to the waxy yellow paper from his Big Mac. He’s busy folding it into something.

“Orchid?”

My eyes roll so heavily in their sockets that I’m afraid they’ll never come back out.

“Lilac?”

I shake my head, biting back laughter.

“Periwinkle?” He shouts, clapping his hands together eagerly.

I don’t even bother dignifying that one with a response.

“Excuse me,” a young girl has her head poked over the booth and she’s tapping me insistently on the shoulder.

“My name’s Lola, and my favorite purple crayon is violet.”

Matt grins at her and reaches his closed fist across the table. At first I think he’s going in for a fist bump and so does she, tapping his large fist with her own small one, but he just winks and unfolds his fingers. There in his palm is a tiny, greasy, yellow flower.

Her eyes light up like she’s just won a hundred thousand dollars and a crown. She snatches it and whirls around, sitting back down in her booth with a thump, suddenly intensely shy.

Before I can even process the tooth-rotting, cavity-inducing, gag reflex-triggering cuteness that I have just witnessed, Matt rises to his feet, bowing deeply and offering me a stiff arm.

“To the car, Lady Violet.”

_What a terrible English accent. The charming fuck._

Lola’s bubbly laughter follows us out into the biting cold.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I’m pushing a shopping cart through a Walmart, still wearing the damn big bird pajama pants, and I am not happy about it.

My only comfort in this whole situation is that if I end up in a People of Walmart book, Matt will end up right there next to me. And then Matt will end up dead. And then I will go to jail, but I will go to jail peacefully.

“I said you wouldn’t have to pay for anything, but I didn’t exactly say I wanted to pay for it either.” Matt has a lit cigarette tucked between his fingers and how no one has clocked him for smoking indoors yet is beyond me.

I roll my eyes and speed the cart up a little, ramming it into the back of his foot with a satisfying thud. He yelps and darts to the side, nearly knocking over a display of baby food.

“Aren’t your parents super fucking rich, trust fund baby?” I taunt.

He drops his cigarette with an angry snort, crushing it with the heel of his boot.

“My father monitors my trust fund with a magnifying glass. Can’t be running around and buying makeup, now can I? Also, for the record, this ‘trust fund baby’ does like to actually buy things with his own money from time to time.” His voice is sharp, the coldest I’ve ever heard it.

“Jeez, okay. No need to get your panties in a twist,” I mutter warily.

It sort of scares me; how quickly fun and joking Matt been replaced with this dark, angry person.

“You know what, Jason? Fuck off. You always fucking act like you know everything. But you don’t okay? You don’t. You don’t fucking know anything about me.” Matt’s jaw ticks and his fists clench and I take a step back, cowering against the shelf.

He tosses a handful of crumpled bills at me and stalks away with a muttered ‘I’ll meet you by the car’ thrown breezily over his shoulder.

I better watch my step, or I could end up alone with no clothes, no money, no food, no car and no phone in the middle of nowhere.

_Fuck._

I walk on in silence, chewing my lip nervously.

Dazed, I grab a vaguely blousy shirt, a bra that is probably the right size and some sort-of-matching capris. Then I get a pair of black flats that look like they might fit me, a package of cheap lace panties and some styling spray. I make a quick sweep for makeup essentials. Mascara, foundation, lipstick, eyeshadow.

The man at the checkout takes one look at my purchase and my pants and gives me a suspicious glare. I might as well have been fisting Neil Patrick Harris, tongue kissing Elton John and wearing a shirt with a sparkly rainbow unicorn licking a dick on it.

“It’s for my sister, douchebag,” I bite out, dumping the money on the counter.

He hands me my bag and my change with narrowed eyes.

I flip him off over my shoulder as I leave.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Matt greets me at the car with a stick of gum and an apologetic smile.

I take it and offer him an apologetic smile of my own.

“I can get bitter sometimes,” he offers as he starts the truck.

“I can be a little bitchy sometimes,” I reply as I buckle my seatbelt and tuck my bag of daytime drag realness at my feet.

He laughs and I frown, sticking my tongue out at him.

He laughs again, louder and brighter than before, and off we drive.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

We stop at a gas station and grab a bunch of random snacks for dinner.

According to Matt, we should reach Denver sometime late tomorrow night. He promises to get us a hotel room for the first night, to minimize the amount of time we have to actually stay with his parents.

He smiles sadly as he says it and it makes my heart twinge a little, but I brush it off.

After all, he’s a grown up and I have my own fucking issues to deal with.

Like this crazy ass plan he’s concocted, and how the hell I’m supposed to be a girl for three days.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I don’t know anything about you, and you know nothing about me and I’m about to meet your parents. How do you feel about that?” I hold the empty Pringles roll up to his face like a microphone.

He narrows his eyes and they nearly vanish into impossibly tiny slits but the smile never leaves his face.

“Well,” he starts, tapping on the wheel gently, “my name is Matthew James Lent. I have an older sister named Lorelei, a younger brother named Patrick, who we don’t talk about, and a cat named Pearl. The strangers masquerading as my parents are Brenda and Samuel Lent. I was home schooled by private tutors for most of my life because I just wouldn’t go to school. I like pine trees, cigarettes, drawing Stepford wives and weed. Now you.”

The weed part doesn’t surprise me. Honestly, neither does anything else.

“Um, well,” I gulp nervously. “My name is Paul Jason Dardo, but I hate Paul, so don’t you dare even try. I have a younger sister named Margaret and I used to have a rabbit named Bugs, after the bunny. My parents are Linda and Brian Dardo. I went to a catholic private school for most of my life and it sucked ass. I like fashion, cynicism and pain.”

The tiny Jasons that live in the rational department of my brain are currently tipping over filing cabinets, starting fires, beating each other over the head with baseball bats and shredding all the important documents they can find, lest I open my fucking mouth up again.

_Great job, Jason. Way to take the Dr. Phil approach to a fucking icebreaker. Pain? What the hell is wrong with you._

He cocks his head, a question floating over his face. I brace myself, clenching my fingers around the Pringles can for support but he just smiles.

“Paul,” he murmurs. “I like it.”

“Don’t you fucking dare!”

“Okay,” he grins. “Whatever you say… Paul,” he coughs into his hand.

I smack him on the arm with an exasperated laugh.

“Watch it; I’m driving over here, Paul!”

I groan, throwing my head back for the ten millionth time today.

“Who pissed in your coffee this morning, Paul?”

“A boy named Matt Lent,” I toss him an innocent smile. He doesn’t exactly take too well to the comment, slamming on the brakes.

The car jerks to a stop, throwing me forwards in my seat.

“Don’t,” he growls hostilely, jaw twitching.

I raise my hands in defeat. He just stares at the road ahead, takes three deep breaths and presses down on the gas, starting the car with another rough jolt.

I sink back into my seat with a barely audible sigh.

When will he quit being so fucking confusing?

When will I learn when to keep my damn mouth shut?


	3. birdcage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> meet the family :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So quick note, all of this is fictional, these are not real people, and the family members especially do not actually represent any actual people in real life. this is fiction, please don’t sue me, m’kay bye.

“I’m sorry.” I mumble after a while.

“For what?” His voice is dry.

“I don’t know. It was sort of fun and shit, and then I said something and all of a sudden it wasn’t fun anymore. So I’m sorry. For that.” It’s a painful admittance, and two days ago I would have rather deep throated a hot poker than admitted that I enjoyed spending time with him, but the twinkle dancing in his eyes is almost worth it. Almost.

“You don’t have to be sorry. And yeah, it was sort of fun wasn’t it?” His mouth quirks up and I sort of want to punch him. Or jam an AUX cord into his eyeball. But I manage to collect myself and expunge my fury in a snort.

“Oh, fuck off.”

I turn my head as I say it, staring out at the snow falling gently all around us. It’s picturesque, beautiful. It’s not bleak at all. It makes me feel sort of fuzzy and warm inside, this alien, all-encompassing blanket of white.

Matt’s hoarse whisper tears me away.

“I’m sorry too, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I get weird about that sometimes. My last name. My family.” His knuckles clench white around the steering wheel and he smiles another sad sort of smile, as if trying to distract from his obvious discomfort. Whether he’s trying to distract me or himself, I have no idea.

_Great job, pity the fucking bastard._

“They’re not nice people, Jason.”

It’s not loud or demanding. He doesn’t force me to listen to it; it’s just there until it’s not. It sinks down, falling between the seams in these reupholstered seats and gathering beneath them in a strange, pitiful pool of things that shouldn’t have been said.

I nod slowly, trying to let him know that I’m here, that I’m listening.

_Yep, listen to the man who kidnapped you. Provide him a shoulder to lean on. Give him emotional support. Smart. Good choice._

“I haven’t seen them in three years.” His throat works heavily around the words.

“Three fucking years. You want to know the saddest bit? The sappiest shit? The little orphan Annie latchkey child that grew up locked in his room alone part? The only reason they even fucking invited me to the ‘Christmas Ball’ is because I talked to my sister and told her that I’m dating.” He shrugs, a twisted sneer gripping his face. “I guess that they figured that I smartened up and decided to play the game by their rules. So here we are.” He gestures grandly to the mess of junk food wrappers and soda bottles strewn all around us.

“Fuck their rules,” I whisper softly, letting my hand flutter over to land gently on his shoulder. “They wanted a pretty little bimbo who would flip her hair and smile, they’re getting a fucking drag queen.”

He frowns, his mouth twitching. “No,” he whispers. “They’re not.”

“What?”

“No. I can’t do this to you. I’m a coward, I’ve always been one. I shouldn’t need anyone else’s help to stand up to my parents. So, I um, I’m going to drive you to the airport, and then buy you a ticket to Atlanta, or wherever you need to go, and then I’m going to go and grow a pair and do what I should have done in the first place: man up. It’s the word of the fucking hour, isn’t it?”

He turns his face away and I have the tiniest suspicion that he may be crying. I also have the tiniest fear that if he doesn’t pull it together and start driving carefully again, he will run this car straight into a tree or a snowbank or a small child.

And then we will both be dead.

And then I rise from the grave and bring him back to life, and then I will kill him.

“I sort of hate you, so I don’t know why I’m even offering this,” _Lord Jesus above if that isn’t the truth_ , “but you’re a good person Matt, so I have to try. Let me do this for you. Let me help you, no questions asked. I’ll do this for you and then we’ll go back to school and never speak again, if that’s the way you want it. But please, please let me help you. Because damn, if someone had offered to help me come out to my parents… just… I know it’s hard and I know it won’t be fun and I barely know you at all, actually, but I want to help you. So there’s that.” No fucking clue why I’m pushing for this so hard, but I am.

_Once just isn’t enough for you, is it Jason?_

“This isn’t a movie, Jason. I won’t let you do this. I wasn’t kidding when I said they aren’t nice.They fucking suck. A lot. I fucking hate myself for dragging you into this because I couldn’t bear to do it alone, but-” His jaw clenches and his face scrunches up, anger, fear and sadness welling up on his face.

“What’s done is done. I’m here. You’re here. I spent 75 dollars of your money at Walmart on clothes and shoes and makeup and I have a personal vendetta on whoever it was that made you decide that kidnapping was a good idea, so I think you should stop talking and keep your eyes on the road and drive us to fucking Denver already so I can change out of these damn big bird pants and into a cute fucking miniskirt.”

It’s a miniskirt from Walmart, so cute is a bit of a stretch, but everything else is more or less true. Except for the bit about 75 dollars. I may possibly have spent 90, but he definitely doesn’t need to know that. How I managed to spend 90 dollars on clothes and shoes at Walmart, I haven’t the slightest. Why he has yet to ask me for the change is either another mystery or a throwback from his childhood of forgotten fifty dollar bills.

He smiles but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“C'mon chain-smoker, let’s go fuck with society’s perception of gender and sexuality.” I shake his shoulder, wincing as his arm moves with mine and the car swerves a little.

“Okay,” he nods his head firmly, steeling himself.

I still really have no clue what the hell I’ve gotten myself into. But I’m about a day away from finding out.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

We’re here.

Denver. The hotel he’s booked for the night isn’t in the hoity-toity part of town, but we’re here all the same. He drives us around a little, just to try and show me the sights and spectacles. It’s what I always imagined Denver would look like: grey, and covered in a thin sheen of ice and a thick blanket of sludgy snow. I just smile and nod my head as he points out some weird local landmarks. The Denver theater. Some extremely old steakhouse named the Buckhouse exchange. The Brownhouse Hotel that Elvis really liked, apparently.

He seems to be relieved to be back in his hometown, but unsure with how to deal with the imminent stress of seeing his family.

At least he won’t have to deal with his asshole sister.

Who lets their twenty year old daughter go to Paris to visit her strange European boyfriend and won’t even try to accept their son’s sexuality? Apparently Brenda and Samuel Lent.

_Probably lots of other people too, Jason._

I feel the tiniest bit guilty, but I’m mostly glad that his asshole sister is one less family member that I’ll have to endure.

The hotel is pretty nice. The room isn’t awful, it’s definitely more than I could afford on my own.

There are two beds, a mirror, a nice TV, a bathroom. I take one look at the shitty blue and yellow faux floral curtains and my heart hurts. I miss Roommate Brian and his horrendous interior decorating choices.

Matt notices my longing gaze and gives me a puzzled look.

“This,” I smile, running the curtains through my fingers, “is something that my friend Roommate Brian would love.”

He stares at me a beat too long and I duck away, letting the curtains fall back into place with a swish.

It occurs to me then that I may just be his only friend.

_You aren’t his friend. He just needs you right now. He’s just a stupid rich boy at heart. He’ll get tired and toss you aside like all of his other shiny toys._

Then again, the term “friend” is so vernacular these days.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

We fall asleep watching some random show called Duck Life. It’s about a bunch of old people that get into fights about whether or not they should leave birdseed out for ducks. This episode is about Dorothy sabotaging Marge’s bag of premium duck food. In retaliation, Marge stabs her gardening shears into the tennis ball on Dorothy’s walker. No joke.

It’s pretty funny, actually, but I don’t laugh and neither does he.

We don’t laugh because of tomorrow.

Tomorrow. The day. The make or break it day.

Tomorrow I will become Violet.

Tomorrow Matt will see his parents for the first time in three years.

Tomorrow I will look the devil straight in the face, and I will jam my metaphorical high heels right into his eyes.

Tomorrow.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Today.

I’m scared shitless.

But if I’m scared shitless, Matt must be dead. Or shitting out his intestines. Or both.

I got up early this morning, to shave. My hand was shaking so badly as I sat on the ledge of the slightly mildewed bathtub that I nicked my knee.

I’ve got the blouse on, over this strappy black bra. It’s weird how differently I think of myself now that I’m wearing a “woman’s” shirt. Jason wears blouses all the time. I tug on my fourth pair of panties. In all my excitement I had completely forgotten to buy some duct tape at Walmart. So I just suck my breath back and smash that dick. The capris are also strange, not something completely typical of a female. Jason wears capris all the time too. This whole thing is really fucking with my self identity, which is stupid, because I do drag. As a woman. But a corset and heels is just _different_ from everyday shit. I’m not even wearing a wig. My hair is just parted and brushed and arranged neatly, for once in my life.

I know I’m not a man. I’m also not a woman?

Truth is I don’t know what the fuck I am.

The only thing I do know is that now is definitely not the time to be questioning my sense of self. Now is the time for balls of steel and a courageous vagina.

I put my makeup on carefully. A thin layer of foundation, some basic face softening with shadow and highlight, mascara, lip gloss, a tasteful smudge of eye shadow, a sweeping draw of blush.

Matt watches from the bed, eyes dark and hooded. He hasn’t said a word all morning and I may be the slightest bit concerned.

I slip my flats on and give myself one last lookover in the mirror.

I look like a woman. I look like Violet. Something stirs in my chest.

I walk up to him on the pads of my feet, grab his hand. It’s limp and clammy so I squeeze it. Once, twice. I can feel his pulse hammering in his wrist.

I offer him a small smile and try to push my own heart back down into my chest where it belongs.

“Let’s do this.”

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The drive to Matt’s parent’s house is silent. We wind up through the mountains, twisting and turning down a road that may as well be paved with the bodies of a thousand dead kittens with how intensely Matt’s staring at it.

He’s puffing a cigarette madly as he drives, the window cracked to release the hazy smoke. The frigid air seeps in and chills me to the bones. The numbness is sort of nice though, it forces me to think of anything but the impending challenge. But the funny thing is that even feeling nothing can’t last forever.

I take a deep breath; try to mentally rub some powder and perfume over my vocal chords.

I pray for the thousandth time today that my Adams apple isn’t too prominent, that my knees aren’t too knobbly, that I don’t look too boy. Obviously this is important to Matt, but I’m beginning to think that this is important to me for other reasons.

Problem is I have no idea what the hell those reasons are. The only thing I’m sure of is that I have no reason to be ashamed. What I’m doing isn’t wrong. What Matt’s doing isn’t wrong either.

_Now that you’re here by choice, cunt._

What we’re doing isn’t wrong.

But I’m sweating like a hooker in church all the same.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The driveway is maybe ten miles long, swooping and curving through a beautifully landscaped field of white.

Matt looks like he’s about to puke, shadows and memories are flickering on his face as quickly as the snow is falling outside.

After about ten minutes of driving and sweating and almost projectile vomiting, he parks the car in front of a giant house.

And I mean giant. This colossal, columned monster could easily rival the Taj Mahal in design and architecture. Everything is either white or a rich, dark paneling. This house swoops and curves and twists and turns as easily and effortlessly as the road that leads to it. It feels majestic, important, in charge. I haven’t even stepped foot inside this gaudy palace and I already feel cowed, overwhelmed. Both our mouths are open, gaping. For different reasons, of course.

As hard as I try I can’t seem to envision Matt here, in this imposing fortress of money and power. I realize with a sharp thud that this isn’t some ski chalet he visited every other winter, this is where he grew up. In this unforgiving, jeweled, birdcage.

A cage that he is voluntarily flying back into, with me in tow.

I grab his hand, he grabs my duffel.

I give his hand a squeeze, but his grip is slack, his face is pale, his jaw is set.

This is not Matt James. This is Matthew Lent.

We trudge through the snow, his coat thrown over my shoulders.

We suck in a collective breath, we ring the doorbell.

And then we wait.

“Matty darling!” The door swings open. The words are jovial; bright and airy. But he can’t help but recoil like he’s been punched in the face.

Yes, this is a birdcage. And the most powerful bird holds the key.

But if I am to be a bird, I will be the loudest, brightest, most cynical damn bird you will ever meet.

And I will sing and chirp and shit all over the floor, and then I will fly away.

And in that moment, when he recoils and grips my hand with every ounce of fear and trepidation and anxiety in his body, I swear that I will take Matt with me when I go.


	4. tchochke?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> meet the parents :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember THIS IS NOT REAL

“Mattie darling!”

Brenda Lent is a tall woman with a cold face and a tightly pinned chignon of platinum blonde hair. She drags Matt inside with more force than I would ever expect from a woman of her age and stature. She gives him a tight hug and a light kiss on each cheek. She is either blind to the fire burning in his eyes, or she chooses to ignore it.

Matt allows it, but from my perch on the doorstep, I can see his shoulders tense, bunching up the fabric of his shirt.

“Oh, Mattie, you must introduce me to your _lovely_ new friend!” She coos, a thin edge of metal snaking lightly through her words as she takes in my appearance.

I can almost see her adding up my better qualities, subtracting the flaws, doing the math on my self worth. It makes my jaw tick.

“Mother,” Matt starts, pulling me inside by my elbow, “this is my girlfriend, Violet. Violet Chachki.”

_Tchotchke? Really you little shit? Trinket my ass._

My anger quickly fades as mommy dearest narrows her eyes and starts scrutinizing me in earnest. My heart hammers in my chest as she looks me up and down carefully and I manage my best courteous, womanly smile. Her nose pinches as though she’s smelled something unpleasant.

_Alright, Jason, think: chin up, hips jutted, chest out, back arched. Alright, Jason, think Violet._

I smile carefully again, extending my hand. She just smiles and blinks blankly back at me. It’s a cold, sharp smile; all teeth and venom. I put my hand away.

“How, _nice_ , to meet you Viola.” She tips her head dismissively in my direction, spins gracefully and turns to walk down the hall. “Come along Matthew, I’ll get you two settled in the guesthouse.”

I grit my teeth and dig my fingers into Matt’s shoulder. He smiles at me uneasily.

 _Sorry_ , is what he mouths.

 _You’ll just have to get used to it_ , is what he means.

* * *

This “guest house” is fucking insane.

It’s twice as big as my parent’s house, if not more.

It curves and swoops and towers over us, a perfect miniature of the behemoth that it belongs to. There’s a fully functioning kitchen with rich marble counter-tops and deep wooden cabinets, an elegant lobby with a grand staircase, a wrap around porch, a master bedroom that could comfortably house three families of four, a games room, a pool room, a billiards room, a luxury bathroom that easily rivals that of the fucking Buckingham palace, and several other rooms that the tour doesn’t even take us near.

Matt’s mother calls the butler, the fucking _butler_ , with a little bell to carry our bags in. He comes scurrying in, a thin, dark skinned bald man in a Klein Epstein Parker suit, and lays our bags on the bed in the master bedroom with a bow and a flourish.

“I hope everything is to your liking Matthew dear,” the she-demon smiles, running a pale hand over his cheek. He clenches his jaw and grits out a patronizing smile and I shake a little in my shoes. The politics of this situation are swimming far, far, over my head and I can’t help but feel inadequate already.

“We will expect you for dinner in the main dining room at seven sharp, cocktails begin at six thirty in the foyer. Casual attire, of course. Please make sure that Viola has something appropriate.” She pins me into the wall with an icy glare as she turns to leave. “Do not be late,” she gives me the same poisonous smile from earlier and I shrink back.

When I hear the front door of the guesthouse safely click to a close, I turn to Matt.

“Well,” he mutters, running his hand over the scratches her nails had carved into his cheek. “She’s not usually so aggressive right off the bat. We must have caught her in an exceptional mood.”

I snort softly, falling back onto the bed. I don’t let myself be surprised that he knows what the word exceptional means. This is Matthew Lent we’re talking about, not some punk-rock stoner named Matt who wears leather jackets and fucks everything that breathes and couldn’t give two shits about even trying to understand big words, let alone actually using them. Matthew Lent was educated by a flock of the world’s finest tutors and a hateful, psychopathic bitch of a mother, not some lukewarm public school teachers with torn up textbooks, and definitely not a group of nuns with a penchant for a highly exclusive brand of tolerance and a habit of trying far too hard to make an example of mildly cynical pupils with unavoidable sins.

“We are idiots,” I moan into a pillow as everything comes spinning down on top of me. “ _You_ are an idiot. Tchotchke? Really?”

“Chachki. C-H-A-C-H-K-I,” he spells it out with a toothy grin.

“That’s not fucking how you spell tchotchke.”

He shrugs with another smile. “I figured the less literally we took it, the better.”

“A souvenir? A trinket? A _bauble_?” The anger is dripping from my voice but he just winks; slow and sultry and infuriating.

“I prefer the term ‘one of a kind collectible’.”

I moan again. “Fuck. We need a back story, and we need one fast. I haven’t even said a word to her and I already feel wrong.”

He chuckles lowly. “We need a cocktail dress for you. “

I groan, kicking my feet up into the air.

“Okay,” I start. “So we were in the same english lit class freshman year, and, wait, what’s your major again?”

He rolls his eyes as he unzips his bag and starts rifling through it. “General studies.”

“Okay, with that basic ass shit, this will work for sure. We were in the same lit class, and you thought I was really smart and I thought you were really, um, cute. So you asked me out on a date and here we are.”

“Laaame,” he drags out, tossing a balled up pair of boxers at me.

“Alright, hotshot. What’s your brilliant plan?” I frown, smacking the underwear away with the back of my hand.

“Well, my mother is a sucker for a bad romance, so we just need to sap it the fuck up and we should be golden. I vote for making it up as we go along. Oh, and also she’s a sucker for a woman with a good head on her shoulders. So basically, I’m going to need you to be a raging cunt that’s madly in love with me, and she’ll love you.”

I smile prettily, batting my eyelashes. “Not a problem darling.”

Although love, I suspect, is definitely beyond the comprehension of this insane witch who calls herself a mother. And it may just be beyond Matthew Lent’s comprehension too.

* * *

Matt disappeared for thirty minutes and brought me back a dress from his sister’s closet.

It’s a red cocktail dress with a conveniently high neck and a built in waistline that will do just perfectly. It’s absolutely the nicest item of clothing I have ever seen, let alone touched. I slip into it and manage to cram my poor feet into a pair of heels that may be three or four sizes too small while Matt changes into his suit in the corner.

I could always bow out gracefully and skitter down the hall to change in the bathroom, but being walked in on by a member of the staff or the grand high bitch herself is much less pleasant than Matt James seeing me in a bra and panties. Which isn’t all that pleasant, really.

I touch up my makeup with a shaking hand.

It’s only six twenty. The tight smile on Matt’s face as we descend the staircase and push our way out of the guesthouse doors tells me that in this world, ten minutes early might as well be thirty minutes late.

* * *

The foyer is fairly empty but the small collection of gaudy, bedazzled and coiffed people are such privilege incarnate that I’m not sure where I’m allowed to let my eyes fall. I’m supposed to be holding Matt’s arm for show, but I’m clinging to it like I really could fall over at any moment.

_I’m giving you realness, bitch._

Matt guides me through the archway and the ten polished heads whip around to follow us. Heated glares and widened eyes trail behind us like rats chasing a garbage truck. Whispers and sharp remarks float in the air all around us and I hesitate but Matt just squeezes my hand, dragging us forwards.

_Hateful bitches gonna be hateful bitches, Violet dear._

“Matt!” A booming voice ricochets through the room and we jerk to a stop, turning to face a tall, broad boy. His face is ruddy and red, ( _drunk at six thirty, really queen?)_ and his eyes run up and down my body, appraising.

I resist the urge to punch him in the face, knock him out, steal all the dirty money in his fat fucking wallet and then kick him while he’s down.

_Think Violet. Think chin up, hips jutted, chest out, back arched. Think Violet, not Jason._

Truth is, Violet wants to punch this dick in the face just as much as Jason wants to. Instead, she smiles and readjusts her hold on Matt’s arm. I can’t fuck this up for him on the first day.

This dick makes eye contact with my chest and leers again. I definitely can fuck this up, I decide. But I shouldn’t.

Matt pulls me closer to his side and the sudden warmth and force takes me by surprise.

“Patrick,” he gives his younger brother a nod, “this is my _girlfriend_ , Violet. Violet this is a shitty asshole that shares my genes. His name is Patrick.”

“Hello,” I give him what I pray to Versace looks like a confident smile, hoping beyond all hope that my voice passes as feminine, that _I_ pass as feminine. My voice wavers at the corners and I wince but Patrick just wolf whistles and drags his eyes up my frame again.

Oh, the irony. It kills me. I resist the urge to giggle at the fact that this probably football playing, certainly lacrosse loving, surely aggressively heterosexual, definitely rich white boy is undressing me with his eyes.

Matt doesn’t seem to find it very funny. He narrows his eyes and his face goes dark. He grabs the back of my head with his free hand and pulls my face to his with a jerk, slotting our lips together for a sloppy and forceful kiss that tastes vaguely of an ashtray and bitter raspberry lipstick.

I freeze, not quite easily sinking into it like I know everyone in this room expects me to do, but not quite bristling and kneeing him in the crotch like every instinct I have is screaming for me to do. All in all, it ends up as a break even sort of deal, lukewarm though it is on my end. Matt pulls away with a wry grin, wiping the lipstick off of his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers consolingly as he calls for one of the waiters that are circulating with trays of cocktails, “we’ll all be too drunk to remember that in the morning.”

I raise my eyebrow. It’s only six thirty. If blackout drunk is the goal, we have quite a while to go.

Not a minute later we watch, amused, as a very drunk Patrick ambles over to a glass window and rams himself into it, sliding down it and onto the floor.

So maybe not _quite_ so far to go.

* * *

Dinner is an experience.

I’m sitting next to Matt. His hand is resting lightly on my knee and every so often he squeezes down sharply, channeling his concealed rage into his fingertips. It certainly keeps me on my toes.

Patrick’s girlfriend, a young girl with huge eyes and an empty sort of smile, is sitting on my other side. She keeps shooting me the filthiest glares. As if it was my fault that Patrick molested me with his eyes in front of every person here. Patrick is sitting across from her, though the asshole seems more interested in anything but the girl he’s brought. I feel sort of bad for her. Matt is, at the very least, making sure I’m okay and paying attention to me, and we aren’t even actually dating.

There aren’t as many people here as I originally thought there were. It was kind of overwhelming at first, but by my fifth or sixth cocktail the edges started blurring and everything seemed more approachable, even the crotchety woman named Michelle that keeps complaining loudly about my shoes.

Matt’s father is nowhere to be seen, but Brenda Lent’s bitter rich lady housewife brigade is in attendance and high form. The loudest and most vocal of these rich-bitches is a rotund woman with a sour face named Ginger Minj and her associate in evil, the equally rotund, equally sour faced Kennedy Davenport. I snickered into my napkin when Matt whispered her name into my ear. Who the hell has the last name Minj? It’s unreal. Then again, so is Chachki.

_Fucking Matt. Fucking rich people._

Chachki, so fake sounding it must be real. So charming that it just works, so funny and stupid that it attracts the slightest pity vote. So ridiculous that it won’t be questioned, especially not among present company, with names like Fame and Phi Phi and Ginger _Minj_. Matt James is many things, but I’m beginning to think that stupid is not one of them.

Matt’s mother looks serene, beautiful even. She’s dressed to the nines in a flowing silk gown and a looping strand of shimmering pearls adorns her neck. She smiles and nods and dips her head gracefully. She even smiles at me once or twice, but as warm as she appears, it never quite seems to reach her eyes.

“Tell us, Matthew,” she finally says, swirling her wine, “how you and Viola met.”

Matt’s fingers tighten almost unbearably around my kneecap. I jab my heel into the toe of his dress shoe and he hisses slightly.

“Viola really is such a lovely girl, isn’t she?” Satan prods again, flicking her fucking forked tail in the air as she cuts herself a piece of whatever it is we’re eating. “We’ve been worried, Matthew. Worried that you would never find the right woman, or a woman at all!”

Matt grips my knee like it’s stolen his life savings, murdered his firstborn and crashed an eighteen wheeler into his precious truck. HBIC’s voice turns up at the end and she lets out a cold laugh that makes my blood boil and my skin crawl. “But, Viola dear-”

“Violet,” I snap, not even bothering to make sure that my voice is light and airy. “My name is Violet, not Viola. Although I’m sure we can petition for a name change if the last two letters are really that fucking hard for you to say.”

The table goes silent, the only noise is the screeching of silverware on porcelain.

Matt’s mother gives me a deep, searching stare, laying down her forkful of food. She’s very clearly challenging me with her steely and ominous gaze, but I refuse to back down. After you’ve had weekly showdowns with the hardened principal of a catholic high school for the severely devout, everything else is roses.

Matt’s fingers cling into my knee for dear life and he ducks his head, visibly holding back either laughter or sobs.

“Well,” the bitch smiles a real smile, bright and almost proud, “I guess we can all understand where dear Matthew gets his taste in women from.”

Nervous laughter ghosts through the room and dinner commences again.

I can’t help but feel the smallest twinge of self satisfaction. I’ve been challenged, tested. And not only did I get the chance to bitch slap Matt’s horrid mother with my words, but I was also awarded something more important, respect. It’s true what they say; Satan gives out respect cards about as often as he passes out the 'get out of jail free’ ones, so when you get one, hold on for dear life. Or, at least, that’s what Max’s weird ex boyfriend, Spooky Aaron, used to say.

_But you got one, didn’t you Violet? You jammed your metaphorical high heels into Satan’s eyes and now Satan thinks you’re such a cunty, crafty bitch that she wants her son to be married to you._

Yes, I have her respect.

And yeah, her respect ought to be crucial later when I reveal myself and Matt and I run for the fucking hills. It’s not going to be pretty. I just hope I’m allowed to take this dress with me when I go. It’s not like anyone’s going to miss it.

* * *

Matt drags me back to the guesthouse at midnight.

We practically swim through the freezing, pitch black air.

He’s giggling into my shoulder, breathing heavily and tripping over his feet. We run up the stairs, _run_ being a subjective term. It’s more like drunken skipping. Which is more like hungover hobbling. Which is more like sober crawling.

So we crawl-run up the stairs. We stumble down the hallway and I fall back on the closed bedroom door, trying to stop everything from spinning so damn much.

With a dark and sudden smile he advances, pinning me in with his hips. I tense up, wiggling back and trying to get the leverage that I need to push him away. He brackets me in with his arms and rocks up into my hips with a sly grin and a muffled pant. His dick is hard and ready for action and it’s definitely getting all up in my grill. I gasp, throwing an arm out to push him the fuck off of me.

“So fucking hot,” he breathes into my neck with sloppy open mouthed kisses as he fumbles with the door knob. “So fucking hot when you’re angry.”

“No, asshole,” I mutter, unsuccessfully trying to shove his face away. “No. I’m not hot, I’m a bitch. And we’re both drunk. And I, in no way, agreed to this shit. So no fucking way.”

He chokes on another moan, grabbing for the door handle again. He gets his little drunk hand around the knob and without a second thought, he turns it.

The door flies inwards with all the weight of the two fully grown humans leaning up against it and we crash onto the floor, Matt landing heavily on top of me.

_Idiot, idiot, idiot._

I lie in stunned silence with my eyes screwed shut for a while, desperately trying to regain some of the oxygen I’ve lost.

“Matt,” I snap once I’ve regained my breath. “Matt. Matt. Matt!”

I crack my eyes open with a wince, only to find that his are closed and his breathing has slowed considerably.

If he was anyone else, I might have thought he’d be dead. Or just really winded. Or maybe injured from the fall. But no, Matt James would never pass up the opportunity to pass the fuck out.

With a groan, I shove him off of me. My back will be giving me fucking hell tomorrow for this shit. I drag him to the bed and barely manage to shove his lazy, drunken ass onto it.

It seems like everywhere I go drunk people are expecting me to take care of them. And I am not a nurturing person, so I have no idea what the hell it is about me that gives off a you-can-pass-out-or-throw-up-near-me-or-just-drunk-lean-on-me-or-drunk-hit-on-me-for-that-matter-and-I-will-get-you-home-and-to-bed-safely vibe.

 _Wake the fuck up, Matt._ _No, wake the fuck up Violet._

I vaguely consider grabbing a pillow and either doing away with him in his sleep or trying to find another room to stay in for the night. But realistically I know in my current tipsy, sleepy, pissed-off state, I could never find another bedroom in this mansion, or enough strength to suffocate anyone to death let alone this ape.

So I sigh and strip out of my dress and heels. My dick lets out a sigh of relief and my toes bow down and make tiny sacrifices to a golden statue in my image to thank me for ending their pain and suffering. I’m going to have so many fucking blisters tomorrow.

I wipe off what’s left of my makeup with a crumpled up pillowcase and then I slump on the far end of the bed, curling around myself.

I close my eyes to thoughts of sloppy kisses on my neck, a sparkling cocktail in my hand, a giant wrinkled hand clutching a tiny, golden key and an elegant strand of pearls slowly choking me to death.

 _Don’t worry,_ he’d said. _We’ll all be too drunk to remember this in the morning._

I don’t let myself think about how much I hope he’s wrong. I don’t let myself think about how much I want him to remember.

I don’t let myself think.


	5. wiley coyote

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> frozen peaches and cartoons. shit gets real.

In the morning, there’s a hand on the small of my back.

The thumb that belongs to it is swiping up and down my spine, trailing softly. It’s a small movement and realistically speaking I should be too hungover to even notice it. But I do.

This is strange. This means that Matt is awake. This means that Matt thinks that I’m asleep. This means that Matt is knowingly, willfully watching me sleep. And petting me while he’s doing it.

This means that Matt is a huge fucking creep.

_But what else is new?_

I contemplate my plans of attack. I could either pretend not to notice it and fall back asleep, or I could roll off the bed and scream bloody murder and make him feel guilty as hell for waking me up, or I could just get up, take a piss, pretend that nothing happened and wait for him to make the next move.

I choose none of the above. Instead, genius as I am, I roll around to face him, pinning his warm hand beneath my side. Sure enough, his eyes are open. His mouth curves up into a lazy smile. He withdraws his hand, scratching casually at his elbow. There’s something freakishly intimate about realizing that you slept the night in someone else’s bed. Even if it’s really just the bed in the guesthouse of his family’s mansion.

 _What the hell, Matt_ , is what I’m supposed to say. _This faking shit isn’t necessary when literally no one can see us, Matt. Aren’t you supposed to be too drunk to remember anything, Matt? Do you remember pushing me up against the door last night, Matt? Or making out with me in front of the entire bitter, rich, bitches of Denver brigade last night, Matt? Do you remember anything you fucking said at all, Matt?_

_Please stop touching me, Matt._

_Please stop confusing me, Matt._

But I don’t say any of that shit.

“Hello,” I whisper with a wince.

Why is his goddamn nose ring so sparkly and distracting? Wearing nose rings while trying to have serious conversations with jewelry-oriented people such as myself should be illegal or, at the very least, frowned upon in most organized societies. Here I am trying to have an (important?) conversation and all I can think about is how many karats that ring might be, or whether it’s cool to the touch, or whether he would like it if I yanked on it a little.

Fuck. Me.

“Good morning,” he rasps. Holy hell his voice is throaty in the morning. I bite my lip. He smells like smoke and sex. How long has he been jerking off and smoking and rubbing my back?

 _Reign it in gurl, this basement is a few inappropriate thoughts away from flooding. That will cause damages that will be beyond repair. And you and I both know that your insurance policy is not equipped to deal with damage like that, henny_.

“Did we do good?” I ask.

“Define good,” he answers.

I think for a second. “Do they think I’m a woman?”

He smiles slowly again and dammit if it doesn’t make me want to smile too.

“You, my dear, might as well be the cuntiest cunt, queen of all the hookers and bitches and crafty gold-diggers and cold-hearted career women, because last night at dinner, my mother handed over her crown and throne and scepter and probably half the kingdom to you.”

I can feel my lips cracking at the corners when I grin and lunge forward to hug him. I am fully aware that my breath is shit and my hair is a mess but I couldn’t care less.

His body is warm and firm and I really have no clue as to how he got so undressed last night. I certainly took no part in taking off his suit. Unless the one who doesn’t remember last night correctly is me and not him.

“Don’t get too excited,” he flicks me on the nose, causing me to withdraw with a hiss, folding my arms protectively across my chest.“She’s not going to be nice to you now that she’s abdicated the bitch throne. No, now she’s going to fucking fight tooth nail and claw to get it back.”

Abdicated. Another one of those words that stoner Matt would never even be able to pronounce. He keeps surprising me, this one.

Matt’s mother fighting tooth, nail and claw for something that I have? Please dear lord who art in heaven hear me out, okay? I sleep with boys sometimes and I spent most of my adolescence lying to nuns and once I stole ten dollars from Roommate Brian so that I could buy new lipstick and it only cost five but I didn’t give him the change and I told Danny that I made him pot brownies but I just put a wicked amount of laxatives in them and once I cheated on a quiz in Calc and I say hateful stuff about Other Brian all the time and I almost had a threesome with Danny and his boyfriend Roy but I puked before we could start but the intent was there, okay? I spent an entire month actively trying to sabotage Aaron and Justin’s relationship because their sex noise was uncomfortable for me to hear late at night and Max probably secretly thinks I’m a bad person and he’s a great judge of character so he’s definitely right and I’m really really sorry about that one time I hit a squirrel on the highway when I didn’t absolutely have to, and I know I may have some redeemable qualities but for my namesake and yours can you hurry the fuck up and just smite my sinning ass down with a lightning bolt and send me right on down to hell immediately? K thanks bye.

“And to think,” Matt speaks like it hurts him as he flops over to lie on his back. “you haven’t even met my father yet.”

And to think that none of this has been thrown up in either of their faces yet.

Well, fuck me with a full size replica of an easter island head.

And to think, as I watch the muscles in his side tense as he reaches over to the bedside table to fumble with something, that I sort of want him to do just that.

_Nope, nope, nope Jason. No, you don’t. That would hurt and he’s a little rich ass, so no. No, you don’t._

Maybe Jason doesn’t, but right now, Violet definitely does.

And I’m starting to think that there isn’t as much difference between Violet and Jason as I originally thought.

_Please stop confusing me, Matt._

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

We aren’t sure who might find us in the guesthouse, staff or mothers or drunk brothers, so I put on a big fluffy robe to hide my bare chest. I try styling my hair in front of the mirror but Matt just grabs me by the arm and drags me down the stairs to the kitchen. He rolls down all the blinds and locks the door with a wink.

“So,” he says cracking open the fridge with a creak, “what do we have here?”

Turns out we don’t have much. A carton of questionably fresh eggs, some moldy yogurt and two empty jars of jam. Matt’s face falls dangerously far when he sees the rows of empty shelves and he scrabbles for his carton of cigarettes.

“We can get some more food?” I try, but he just stands there huffing on the cigarette, shoulders shaking. I reach out a hand and to touch his arm but he jerks away, unlocks the door with a click and storms outside to finish inhaling the cancer stick. It must be ten degrees below outside and he’s wearing only boxers, but I don’t dare say anything about it.

He’s an adult. He is fully capable of making his own damn choices.

The mood in the room splatters on the floor and runs down the cracks in the tiles and squelches uncomfortably beneath my toes.

I open up the freezer with a groan. Inside, smiling up at me like some small, icy cherubs are some fairly frost bitten bags of frozen fruit.

“Perfect,” I mutter, starting up the stove and heating up a pan. I whistle awkwardly to myself as I warm up the fruit. In food network terms, of course, this is a warm raspberry and peach reduction. It’s twenty minutes before he stumbles back inside, his face pale, his lips blue.

Without a thought I strip out of my robe and toss it to him. This leaves me in nothing but my tight red panties from last night but at least my morality and I can rest assured that his fingers won’t get frostbitten and fall off because of something we did or didn’t do. I pad into the other room and grab a blanket from the back of the couch to wrap around myself like a toga. If I can feel him staring at my softly swishing hips on my way I don’t say anything about it. If I sway more than I should, more than I normally do, I don’t mention it either.

I rummage around until I can find two bowls and then I dump some of the warm, gooey fruit into each. We can’t find spoons so we use our hands, syrupy juice slicking up our fingers and running down our arms.

He’s eerily silent for a while, but once he’s finished eating he clears his throat. I jerk my head up, expecting him to say something. And he does.

“My mother, uh, she isn’t very good at letting go of things. She manages this house, this estate with an iron fist. But there are, periods, um, there are times when she just stops. Times when the fridges are empty and the pantries are bare and the staff stop showing up for work. It happens more often than you would, uh, think.” His face clouds over again and I wonder how familiar he is with times like that. I wonder how much time he spent like this as a child, sitting in a big, lonely golden cage surrounded by everything he never needed when all he wanted was someone that would care enough about him to remember to make sure he had something to eat.

I want to hug him, come up with something stupid and smiley that I can whisper into his ear, so that he will be happy. Even if it’s only a temporary happiness. But for the life of me I can’t think of anything stupid and smiley to say. I can’t think of anything to say at all.

So I just finish my peaches in silence.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s only ten o'clock in the morning. Matt announces that we have an hour before we’re supposed to meet up at the main house.

So we do what any rational, slightly hungover adult people would do: we sprawl on the couch and turn on cartoons.

I’m sitting on the far right end, he’s on the far left. We don’t touch at all and it’s sort of weird, having this much space between us. In the last three days we’ve been in constant communication, in constant contact, in a constant close vicinity.

Thirty minutes of watching Wiley chase the Roadrunner go by. I tap my wrist, twitch my foot, scratch my ear. Matt is still, focused.

“When we get out of here,” I say finally. “When we get out of here I will take you to the supermarket and buy you all the shitty kid food you ever wanted but never got to have. Twinkies, chips the whole shebang.”

He cocks his head, his eyes are severe like he’s trying desperately to figure something out.

“It wasn’t so bad,” he whispers. “S'not so bad here. I had a pony that lived right in the backyard. I went skiing every winter. I had an education, a fucking private jet, anything I ever wanted.” He shrugs, staring down at the carpet. “Lots of people have it off worse. Money is life here. Money is success. Money is freedom.”

The defeat in his voice makes my heart crack a little.

“No.” My voice is firm and I watch the shock visibly vibrate through him. “No it was bad. Was it the worst? No. But it was bad. You had shelter and an education and two parents that didn’t and still don’t give a tiny little shit about you. Your brother is a drunk, your mother is a horrible person. And I haven’t met your father but I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume that he’s even fucking worse. You have nothing to prove to them, nothing at all. You owe them nothing, okay? Nothing. Money isn’t the same thing as happiness. Money isn’t the same thing as love. Money is power but power isn’t the same as freedom. Not when you have to hack off all your limbs, refuse to accept and love your son, and sell your soul to the devil to get it. That isn’t power, that’s evil.”

I watch the words hit him, I watch them slide off his face and slip onto the bearskin rug at his feet and make a general mess of themselves. He crumples, folding into himself.

Before I can even consider going to comfort him, he’s crawling over the couch to me.

He grabs my face in his hands and smashes my lips against his own. He’s kissing me desperately, hungrily. Like he would die if he stopped. He runs his hands through my hair and pushes me down onto the couch, settling himself heavily on top of me, rutting his hips down into mine. His skin still carries the bite of cold from the outside, even almost an hour later he feels like a slab of icy rock. He tastes like ashes and peaches and salt.

He’s crying, I realize dazedly as he kisses a sloppy path down my neck. He’s crying as he kisses me. I grab his shoulder, trying to yank him up, but he keeps traveling down, leaving haphazard kisses as he goes, pushing aside my blanket toga to slide his fingers into the elastic of my panties.

“What are you doing Matt?” I choke. He pauses there, his shoulders shaking with their silent sobs, a steady stream of tears now splashing onto my thighs. He bows his head, resting it on my stomach, his spine curving. He clutches my panties in his fists and shakes, making tiny, desperate sounds.

Has no one ever hugged him? Has he never just been held and allowed to cry?

I sit up, pushing him off me. I think he expects me to run off and leave him because he falls back onto the couch and curls up into himself again, rocking into a little ball of darkness, fury, and thick, syrupy sadness.

I nudge him forward, to the edge of the couch and I nestle in behind him, folding my arms around his front. He doesn’t stop crying and stiffen up like I halfway expect him to. Instead he turns around, grabs my shoulders and chokes his tiny little cries into my chest. He cries and cries and cries until he can’t.

I hold him and rub his back and kiss the top of his head and whisper silly nonsense things into his hair. And when he’s done expunging twenty years of bottled up sadness, he falls asleep.

I can’t bear to wake him so I woman up and send courageous thoughts to my vagina and go to the fucking family meeting alone. They glare daggers into me when I tell them that Matt isn’t feeling too well, that he’s still sleeping last night off.

“Tell Matthew that we expect him at the lodge at one, with or without you Viola.” Troll-Witch snaps.

“Violet,” I snap, nodding my head and smiling at her, sugary sweet.

When I turn away my hands are curled into fists. I would punch her, if I could.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I let Matt sleep until twelve thirty.

He wakes up with a soft, tentative smile.

“Hi,” his voice is hoarse, broken.

“Hi.” I pat him awkwardly on the head. He purrs, leaning into it. It makes me wonder what happened to the cat he loved so much. It makes me wonder how much his mother’s poor temper and bipolar tendencies affected the lifespan of the animal. It makes me wonder why he hasn’t so much as asked about the cat since we’ve been here.

It makes me wonder how easily conditioned he is to losing the things that he loves.

I open my mouth to say something but I just sigh and tell him that they expect him at the lodge in thirty minutes.

He jumps up and runs to go and get dressed. I follow him, not sure what people wear to the lodge. We don’t talk about what happened. We don’t talk about the crying, we don’t talk about his cat, we don’t talk about his mother or his family, or his issues. We just smile and crack jokes and laugh and in this moment, as he’s tossing me a pair of weird long pajama type things to wear, it almost feels real. It almost feels like something that we’ve had forever, something we fit so comfortably into.

It almost feels like something we could have for real. Almost.

_Good show, old boy._

“So,” I mutter once my bra is on and stuffed and the weird pajamas things have been pulled over top. “What next?”

“Next, dear Violet,” he whispers, pulling me to his chest with an easy, slow smile that makes my pulse sing and my lungs nearly collapse, “we ski.”

_Next, dear Violet, you fall in love._

_Next, dear Violet, this crashes._

_Next, dear Violet, this burns._

_Next, dear Violet, you find out just how broken he already is._

_Next, dear Violet, he tosses you aside._

_Next, dear Violet, you break._

_And next, dear Violet, there will be no fixing you._

_Because, Violet dear, there is no next. Boys like him don’t understand next. Just now. And then nothing._


	6. short for a reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> skiing, pillsbury dough boy realness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so my computer can't process read more bars so until i get to use my grandpa's computer, I'm posting the next chapter here first *gasp* enjoy :)

The first thing I learn about skiing is how thankful I am-for once in my long, illustrious, life-that I get a decent excuse to wear baggy, uniformly ugly, formless clothes and drink hot chocolate.

The second thing I learn about skiing is that it's fucking hard.

And the third thing I learn about skiing is that I suck at it. And I mean I _suck_ at it. I'm about as good at skiing as batman is at taking orders from his butler. My very best ability is the piss-poor skill of always finding the iciest, rockiest places to flop onto the ground. Patrick is practically skiing circles around me and he smells like a winery and he's got a flask of vodka tucked into his glove that he takes “sips” from every ten minutes or so. It's embarassing, to say the least.

Matt seems to find my utter suckage amusing enough. He's humoring me though, helping me from the ground and lovingly brushing chunks of ice and rock off of my ass. I am his girlfriend, after all.

Eyeroll.

We ski down the hill hand in hand. Well _he_ skis down the hill and I cling to him like he's a toilet paper roll and I'm a rat drowning in the sewer. Even his botoxed cunt-osaur of a mother skis better than me. And I was at least counting on being a better skier than Ginger-fucking-Minj. But no, the fates are not smiling down on me today. Everyone on this entire mountain skis like they've been doing it their whole lives, which they probably have, I remind myself. But still. Still. I saw a two year old girl do a jump before skiing effortlessly through some slalom poles. A _jump_. I can barely stay upright on these death machines and a little girl in pigtails is landing jumps and whizzing through obstacle courses.

_Violet Chachki, you suck._

There are some benefits to this, though. I like the fact that I don't have to constantly worry about whether or not I look feminine. Everyone looks the same in these pillsbury dough-boy suits. I like that I'm not wearing a lick of makeup and I still look as snowy and awful as I would have if I had actually tried with my appearance. I like that I don't have to talk to anyone but Matt and the occasional angry passerby. I like riding the ski-lift and flicking chunks of ice off of my skis and onto innocent people down below.

The politics are still so far beyond me, though. Being a pro at skiing now apparently counts as some important character trait? Or, at least, everyone in Matt's immediate social circle is acting like it does. If skiing ability really is important, mommy dearest should hook Matt up with the pigtails over there. I snicker, brushing snow out of my eyes.

Matt is a natural skier. He moves fluidly and gracefully across the snow, supporting both my weight and his own. It's like he's not even fucking trying, and the sly grin he wers every time he helps me to my feet suggests the same.

If there's one person here who can make a snowsuit look like anything other than michelin-man, marshmallow couture, it's Matt. If there's one person here who can make a snowsuit look hot, it's Matt.

If there's one person here I shouldn't be thinking about like that, it's Matt.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

\- - -

We eat lunch in the lodge.

Matt smiles awkwardly at a table full of pretty, beautiful people with sun-kissed skin and tousled hair. They sound just about as rich and stuffy as they look.

“You have to introduce us to your new girlfriend, Mattie!” A slim brunette with heavy lipliner squeals. Something snarky but not outright bitchy either hides behind her tone.

“Um, Tatianna, this is Violet. Violet this is Tatianna, my ex.”

I balk momentarily. His ex?

“Hello, sweetie. I've heard so much about you.” I smile with as much confidence and breeziness and condescending attitude as I can muster as I extend my hand. Girls like her are trained to smell blood in the water and go in for the kill right at your jugular. Tatianna takes my hand and digs her fingernails into my palm.

“All good things, I hope,” she sneers, looking me up and down. Her hands are icy cold and she smacks her gum just a teetch too loud for comfort.

“Nothing but the best for you and yours.” I squeeze her hand right back, tightening my grip into a steel vice of anger. At least I have tenacity. She extricates her hand with an outright glare and I give myself a mental high five. Yeah, bitch. That's right. I won.

Violet: 2

Matt's ex-beard: 0

I'm still a beard, I guess. Just a more elaborately dressed one with a nicer ass and better makeup. _Please don't shave me._

Matt grabs my arm and tows me to a table near the window. Our ski boots click uncomfortably loudly on the creaky wooden floor.

I wonder if he's consciously thinking about how hot I apparently look when I'm angry.

_Fantasies are fun and all but remember that your insurance is shit, girl._

He leans into my ear and a shiver races up my spine, making the hair on my arms stand on end.

“You,” he pauses, his mouth barely grazing my earlobe. I bite my lip, waiting with baited breath. “Have snow all over your ass,” he finishes with a dorkily triumphant smile.

I punch him hard in the arm. He laughs so violently that he spills his hot chocolate all over his pants.

\- - -

About halfway into our lunch, one of Matt's apparently less-assholey friends strolls over to our table.

“Toxxie.” Matt greets with a smile.

“Hey, uh, Matt. Man.” He smiles as he brushes a hand through his lime-green bowl cut uncomfortably. No way this inflated dick has been skiing all day, not with that perfect hairdo. There's also probably no way that he's straight, not with those perfectly colored eyebrows and those bulbous injected lips.

_C'mon gaydar. C'mon stereotypes. C'mon self-perpetuated generalizations and biases about a community you are part of but virtually know nothing about._

Mother once told me to never trust a man that didn't groom his eyebrows. But then again, she never said anything about rich plastic freaks with green bowl cuts.

“Have you met my girlfriend Tox?” Matt's eyes are carefully blank as he wedges a toothpick between his teeth. Bowl-cut is staring way too hard at the balled up napkin in the middle of our table.

“Yeah, hi.” Tox bites his lip, a shadow flickering over his face. “Look,” he hurries on, still making firm eye contact with the napkin, “we're having a party tonight, at Roxy's parent's chalet? I wanted to invite you.”

“Violet goes where I go, Tox.” Matt is still blank, still. Bowl-cut bites his lip. The familiar nickname Matt is using for this boy seems stilted, out of place. I feel stilted, out of place.

“Right. So, uh, you're invited too then,” he jerks his head in my direction. “The party starts at seven.”

And then he's turning, speeding away. Matt's face has gone black again. His fingers itch for a cigarette. I drink my cocoa in silence.

There's no way that boy was straight. There's no way Matt doesn't know it just as clearly as I do.

\- - -

After lunch, Matt makes a quick stop by the pretty people table to tell Patrick, who is hanging off of some girl named Morgan like she's a window and he's the drapes, that we're heading home for the day. He tells Bowl-cut otherwise known as Toxxie otherwise known as Bitter Bettie otherwise known as the-closeted-gay-who-probably-fucked-Matt-at-one-poin-in-time that we'll be at the party.

Bowl-cut shoots daggers into me. I flinch. There's practically a museum of history here and I've just stepped over the ropes and started rubbing my hands all over the precious artifacts.

We drive home in pretty amicable silence.

Matt smokes a cigarette in the kitchen with the window cracked while I try and beat my face for the party. It's crucial that I appear beautiful, sexy, desirable. Actually, I need to be as hot as hell itself. It shouldn't be too much of an issue.

I shave my legs again, slather on some lotion that smells like honey.

I apply a thin layer of foundation to my face, fill in my brows, sweep dramatic color onto my cheeks with the blush. I slash eyeliner under my eyes and smudge it into a perfect, punk rock mess with a swatch of toilet paper.

Matt sneaks me into the main house at six or so on a clothes run for the party. We raid his sister's closet, which is larger than my entire dorm room back at school. Rich people, I swear. There's a diagram on the wall that maps out the areas of the closet. A map. This bitch needs a map to navigate her closet. Un-fucking-believable. I search and search, flipping through racks upon racks of absolutely beautiful clothes until I hit the jackpot: a pleated leather miniskirt with spiky heels and a sheer, clingy top. His jaw clenches when he sees them from his perch on the bed.

“Shouldn't you pick something more. . . appropriate?” He says casually as we dash through the snow and into the guest house.

I sigh, swishing the top at him with a smile.

“Matt, dear, I'm afraid I want to stand out from the crown, not blend into the beige wall behind it.”

He doesn't say anything but he snatches a cigarette and stalks off to smoke it the second we step foot in the guesthouse.

I guess my maniacal plan to drive Matt James crazy is working out pretty well. Minus the whole sending him to an early grave part. That may have been too wistful of me.

\- - -

Upon review, this miniskirt was probably a bad choice. It's cold as an awkward fuck outside. But hot damn, I look good. I'm getting to the point in my life where I almost wish I had rear view mirrors so that I can constantly check out my own ass. It's pretty sad, really. Not my ass, just my priorities.

You see, the funny thing is, I'm actually sort of a terrible person.

We drive over to Roxy's house in Matt's truck. His mother doesn't even ask to see where we are going. His father is still MIA. I'm beginning to have the sneaking suspicion that no one has seen Matt's father for a very long time.

I want to ask him about Bowl-cut boy, but I don't. I just touch up my makeup in my hand mirror and hum along to the radio and decide that pretending to have social tact is sort of nice for a change.

\- - -

The chalet is humming and buzzing. The expensive liquor runs as easily as the chocolate from the fondue fountain. The money is oozing, dripping, flowing from the walls.

I may have been feeling the slightest pressure to make myself memorable to Matt's rich friends.

I may have had one or two or three too much of everything. I may have gotten the slightest bit drunk. I may have danced the slightest bit wildly. I may have sort of ground my ass into some straight dude's zipper.

Matt may have punched him in the face.

We may have grabbed our stuff, yelped our goodbyes and run out the door not two minutes later.

Or we may have been kicked out.

The conversation we have on the trip through the freezing cold to the car is heated, to say the least.

“This skirt is short for a reason, Matt.”

He stops and whirls around, pointing an accusatory finger at me.

“Then why the fuck did I just punch that guy in the face?” He spits, jabbing the finger into my chest.

“I don't know. Remind me again why you thought that was a smart fucking choice?” I fold my arms and tip my chin up, bracing myself against his anger and the bone-chilling wind. Fuck me and my nice ass, I can't feel my legs in this skirt it's so damn cold out.

“It wasn't.” His jaw twitches. In a split second he surges forward, grabbing the small of my back and pulling my mouth against his. He kisses me passionately, insistently, his tongue pushing through my shivering lips to slide against mine.

Like this asshole caveman thinks he can just claim his territory. Like this 'territory' even fucking belonged to him in the first place.

I clamp my teeth down on his tongue and he staggers back with a curse.

“What the fuck?” He spits blood into the snow.

“Consider yourself cut off,” I snap.

“Cut off from what?”

“Doing whatever the hell you want to me. You're cut off.”

“Because I punched that dickhead? Come on, it can't be that unbearable,” he growls, spinning on his heel and turning to the car again.

“Then why the hell did you do it, then?'' I storm after him, digging my heels just a little too far into the snow.

I might be talking about the kiss, I might be talking about the punch, I might be talking about any number of confusing and terrible (but actually sort of wonderful) things.

“I DON'T KNOW. FUCK.” He slams the car door shut behind him. “You're _my_ fucking girlfriend. What was I supposed to do, let you rub yourself all over him while literally everyone I knew watched?”

It's the only time I've ever heard him yell, really yell. Is he pissed off that someone else had their grubby hands on his property or is he honestly really jealous that I danced with some rich boy and not him?

_Please stop confusing me, Matt._

I slide into my seat, my mouth hanging open as I struggle to find the words to express whatever the fuck it is I'm feeling.

He sighs, scrubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms. “Let's just go home before I have to get into another fistfight for your virtue.”

“My virtue? What the hell am I, the virgin Mary?” My arms are still crossed obstinately and I slam my heel so hard into the floor of the truck that the whole thing shakes.

“No. You're not. I get the fucking picture. But trust me, that boy you were getting nice and cozy with? His name is Michael Feliciano and he's a fucking asshole. I grew up with that dickhead and he's easily the worst of the worst. I wouldn't even let Patrick fuck him, and you know I don't give a shit about Patrick or the notches on his bedpost. But he's straight, so I guess you earned some much needed street cred.” He laughs and his fingers shake as he lights his cigarette.

My pulse roars in my ears and I'm about one more snarky comment from him away from going incredible hulk on this shit.

Common sense and rational thought have long past left me so I ask it. It's snappy, accusatory and it catches him unawares. Just the way I like it.

“What's the deal with bowl-cut boy.”

Matt freezes, chews his lip as he starts the car.

“Were we that obvious?”

“Pretty much.” It definitely comes out more acridly than the gentle 'be cautious in front of your rich fucktard peers who don't understand you and will ridicule you for your sexuality' warning that I had originally planned.

“Oh. Sorry,” he bites, blowing a stream of hot smoke into my face. “I'll try to keep my gay out of your mascara.”

“Please do.” I cough, fanning the air in front of me to waft the smoke away. “I hate clumpy eyelashes.”

And that's the last of it.  
- - -

I grab a pillow and a blanket and move myself down to the couch.

I last about twelve minutes in the shivering cold before I stumble back up the stairs with an apology glued to my lips.

I knock on the door.

He answers in boxers.

“Hey, so um,” I start, shuffling my feet. He grabs my shoulder, dragging me against him in a long, jerky movement. My shoulders tense and I brace myself for lips or tongues or something otherwise confusing. It's just a hug though, long and warm and important.

Fuck. As much as I want him to hold me, I want him to kiss me. I melt into the hug and wait for the strange longing to pass.

He pulls me back to the bed, tucking me into his side and wrapping his arms around me, effectively caging me in next to him on the mattress.

Fuck, I still want him to kiss me.

“Kiss me?” My voice is so low and quiet and broken that I'm not sure that I've spoken at all.

He presses his lips against my bare shoulder in a soft kiss.

It's not quite what I asked for, but it's sort of heart stopping all the same.

“Matt, I'm sorry,” I start again. He leans forward and presses his lips softly against mine, effectively silencing me.

“Shhh, just sleep.” he whispers into my mouth, rubbing a soothing hand over my back.

We fall asleep like that, twined together, and I let myself forget how desperately confused I am, how hopelessly entranced I am, how painfully I'm falling in love.

I let myself forget that he's just another rich user who only needs me and wants me and kisses me and touches me because it's convenient to him. I let myself forget that tomorrow is the last day that I've signed up for. I let myself forget about how deeply regretful I'll be in the morning. I let myself forget that I, even after all of this, still want him to kiss me so badly that my teeth ache.

I want him to want me so much more than I should. It's beginning to be a problem, because I still don't know what the fuck it is that _I_ want.

So I close my eyes and bury my head in the crook of his neck and let myself forget for a little while.


	7. monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pancakes and people

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry in advance

When I wake up, I can barely breathe.

Sometime during the night Matt must have shifted because he's lying heavily on top of me and snoring like a cow, his chin resting on my chest.

I fight the urge to roll him off of me onto the floor.

I'm not usually so violent, I swear.

Instead of causing him bodily harm, or otherwise embarassing him, I decide to pull a slight creeper move and stare at him a little bit. It's not like it's going to hurt him.

_No the only person that it'll be hurting is you, Violet._

Sleep softens him beautifully. His defenses are down, his brow is smooth, his fingers are calm and still, never twitching for a cigarette. His lips are parted slightly and the feathery fringes of hair that hang down around his face flutter at his every exhale. Behind his lids his eyes shake and the corner of his mouth twitches ever so slightly. He's dreaming.

I hope it's a nice one.

We lie like that for a while. Me, sucking in air and trying to readjust his weight on my chest as quietly as I can. He, dreaming and sighing and looking so young, so vulnerable, so beautiful.

 _Beautiful_ , I realize with a start, laughing softly as I stare up at the ornately carved ceiling.

Matt James is beautiful. Sure he's an asshole, a regular moron, a creep, sort of a douche and a spoiled little rich kid with some serious daddy issues. But he's so, so fucking beautiful. He has these incredible eyes that are somehow the exact color of moldy bread, and he's got this weird blonde-brown hair that always looks the slightest bit pissed off. His eyebrows slink over his hooded lizard-eyes and his punk ass septum ring is sort of like a glamorous middle finger to this crazy place he calls home. His jaw carves and arches up, framing his face in solid bone. It doesn't sound like much seperately, but when the individual pieces are pasted and arranged together on a canvas of smooth skin that smells like smoke and pine, it might as well be most beautiful thing on earth.

His smile is like a rainbow, bursting through the clouds of self-doubt and fear that trail after him like his own personal thunderstorm. The twinkle in his eyes makes you want to get to know him, really, truly know him. His laugh is this weird fucking chuckle that always starts out low in his throat and sort of bubbles out of his mouth. It's annoying as hell, but I can't imagine my life without it.

He's such a huge fucking dork.

_Violet Chachki is in love with such a huge fucking dork._

I laugh again, trying as hard as I can to keep myself still.

Violet Chachki is in love. I'm in love. _I'm_ falling in fucking love. This is sappy shit, too. I want flowers and peaches and skiing lessons and diamond rings and a cunt for a mother in law and children with golden septum piercings and rainbow smiles.

This time I can't help but shake when I laugh. It's a desperate, gasping from-the-gut, sort of laugh. It makes my throbbing headache thunder deeper into my skull, but I can't stop it for the life of me. I'm imagining millions of tiny Matts with millions of tiny rainbows shooting out of their mouths and millions of tiny cigarettes in their hands.

His eyes flutter open and he smiles slowly.

It hits me like a bolt of lightning as he blinks up at me, shooting into my head and sending electricity fizzing down into my toes. I'm in love with him. Him. Him. _Him_ right here on my chest. It's him. He's it. This is the fucking one I picked, him right here. This majestic beauty with the dorky giggle and the stupid grin and the strange tattoos and the mouldy eyes and the trust fund and the trust issues and the nicotine addiction.

_Two fucking days and you're in love._

Well, not two days. In defense of my common sense he has been my arch-nemesis since freshman year. I hated his fucking guts, and the sight of him made my fist itch to slam into his smirky little face. I still sort of want to punch him. But I also want him to press me into the mattress and just wreck me with his hands, his mouth, his teeth, his dick.

_Woah there, cowboy. Rein it in. You have a very awake, very warm, very close to naked person who is currently lying on your front with his groin pressed against your leg and your groin pressed against his stomach. Getting fired up is not a major plan for success there, bud._

“Morning,” he says, yawning like it's a punctuation mark.

“Morning,” I whisper, suddenly bashful. My heart is thumping just a beat too fast and I pray to god and Gucci that he doesn't notice.

His head slumps forward again, his nose smushing against my chest. He inhales slowly. I follow suit.

My bones feel brittle, like any wrong move could casuse them to snap, crack, shatter.

I can feel his smile pressing into my skin.

“You smell nice.”

I dig my teeth into my lower lip. He's such a fucking dork. It's actually a major issue.

Love flutters against my lips and I seize up. This isn't love. It can't be.

_Love is a two way street, Violet. You are heading down an unfinished road with no outlet. And you are heading down it alone._

I do what I should have done to begin with, I shove him right off of me. He laughs, slow and sleepy, throwing a hand up over his eyes.

“I couldn't breathe,” I complain, flopping onto my back again.

We lie there for a while longer. Matt smoking a cigarette, me staring at the way the smoke dances with the light flickering through the window panes. Finally my stomach grumbles just too loudly to ignore and I turn to face him, batting my eyelashes just about as sweetly as I can muster.

“Breakfast?” I jut out my lips and stare down at him through my lashes.

With a groan he rolls out of bed and pads out of the room, lit cigarette still perched precariously between his fingers. His boxers are thin, worn out and clingy. He shuffles his hips strangely, shifting his weight stiffly from side to side, like he can tell that I'm shamelessly staring at his ass. It almost makes me laugh. Almost. He's got a nice ass, but it's not nearly as devastating as mine.

I burrow under the covers, fluffing and plumping the thick comforter up to my neck. It takes about two minutes of just sitting and letting the smokey, warm smell of Matt wash over me before my eyelids are fluttering closed and I'm drifting back to sleep.

\- - -

Matt wakes me up by jumping on my legs and blowing a rasberry into my stomach.

I narrow my eyes at him, lashing out my foot and aiming for his toothy fucking smile. He whirls away, avoiding it with a cheeky grin. A flurry of snowflakes drifts from his hair and settles on the ground and little particles of snow cling to his eyelashes.

“Pancakes,” he sings, tugging on my hand. “I went shopping and bought the ingredients. And now we are going to make pancakes.”

I moan loudly, covering my grin with a well placed eye-roll and a yawn.

“If you went through all the trouble of going out and buying breakfast, couldn't you at least have bought pancakes from I-Hop? No assembly required.”

“Ah ah ha, Jason!” he tsks, waggling his finger. “You internet generation and your instant gratification. No, we are going to make pancakes.”

“Why?”

“I've never made pancakes before.” He shrugs, another rainbow smile cracking his face wide open. I sigh, tugging a hand through my hair.

Might as well humor this fucking infant. What could go wrong?

A lot, probably.

\- - -

“Okay, so we have flour, baking soda, salt and sugar in this bowl, correct?”

“Yes chef,” I roll my eyes.

“So we just have to mix up a cup of milk, one egg and three tablespoons of butter and pour it in the middle.”

“Where did you get this recipe again?” I mutter as I grab the milk jug from its new home in the guesthouse fridge.

“Online.”

A vague source, to say the least.

“Don't you think you should have, oh, I don't know, cracked open a cookbook?”

“You're one to talk.” he says, cracking an egg into the bowl. “You use the internet for everything.” With a soft curse he reaches a spoon into the mixture to pull out egg shell shrapnel that he's left behind.

He's not wrong, but I would sooner die than admit defeat to anyone, let alone him.

“I do not. And besides I don't use the internet for cooking. I use cookbooks.”

He smiles, flicking the whisk up into the air and catching it with a flourish. “We don't have cookbooks, Violet dear. So we improvise.”

“We should buy some, Mattie dear.” I pat him on the shoulder, brushing off some flour that I find hiding there.

“Well the way I see it is, if this recipe works we won't have to.” His smug face is just begging to be slapped silly.

I wordlessly grab the butter and cut off three tablespoons to be microwaved. The logic, it strikes me speechless every fucking time.

He cranks the flame on the stovetop, slipping some butter into a frying pan as I finish mixing the batter. We make sort of an awesome team, he and I. At pancakes, at least.

When I'm done mixing I rummage around for a spoon to dole out the batter into the pan with. He beats me to it, brandishing a shining silver spoon triumphantly.

I glare, lunging for it.

He shakes his finger at me, holding the spoon just out of my reach.

“I'll cook,” he smiles, laughter dancing in his eyes. “Let me keep my internal patriarchy up and running for at least one meal of the day please, dear wife.”

I snort and grab the pancake flipper, smacking it into his spoon hand. His mouth gapes open and, quick as a flash, he's dipping the spoon into the batter and flicking it at me. The semi-warm liquid splatters all over my face and before I can think about what this must be doing to my poor pores, I'm dipping my hands into the batter and smearing it all over his face.

He howls and retaliates, smothering some into my hair. We wrestle like that for a while, throwing pancake batter at each other until common sense kicks in and we decide to save some for the actual pancakes. There's still no other food in this damned guesthouse.

We sort of stand there, just staring at each other.

He slides a finger across his brow, popping it into his mouth with an unapologetic smoulder.

Something stirs in my gut.

“You, uh, missed a spot,” I laugh. The air in the room is suddenly supercharged with something dark and heavy and so damn enticing.

“Yeah?” he rasps.

I gnaw on my lower lip. At the rate I'm going it's just going to shrivel up and fall right off.

“Yeah,” I whisper, reachiing out to swipe my finger across his lips. His eyes darken, his gaze intensifies. My stomach flutters as I slide the digit into my mouth, cleaning it with a gentle sweep of my tongue.

He surges forward, pinning me into the counter with his hips. He's practically fucking my mouth with his tongue and my knees go weak when he sucks my lower lip into the hot cavity of his mouth. I moan into the kiss, sliding my hands into his hair.

This feels like floating, this feels like living, this feels like dying, this feels like falling apart.

Falling apart.

Tomorrow morning, this whole thing will fall apart.

Tomorrow morning this will be over, no strings attached. And I will have fallen apart.

He slides a hand down my side, grabbing my ass and pressing me impossibly close to him.

“Jason,” he moans into my mouth, tugging his hands through my hair.

Jason. He called me Jason. Not Violet. _Jason_.

I jerk back with a sob, my hands flying up to cover my mouth.

I dart frantically from the room and barrel up the stairs, Matt in hot pursuit. He has more muscle tone and coordination, but I have longer legs, and a pinch more desperation. I make it to our room first, slamming the door shut behind me and locking it with a swift click. I fall back against it with a small sob, sliding down until I'm sitting on the ground with my head in my hands and my knees pressed against my hammering heart.

Matt slams against the door not five seconds later, trying the handle and rapping on it heavily with his fists. “Jason? Jason? Jason, open up. Please. Jason, look I'm sorry.”

I cringe, listening to the door creak and complain, but the lock holds steady against the assault.

I take a deep breath.

“I'm sorry.” His voice is breathy and sad. 

His sorrow is almost laughable. It strikes a nerve in some cold, dark place deep inside of me.

“For what?” I'm no longer shivering. Now my spine is straight and stiff and my veins have been shot through with ice.

“I don't know. For getting too involved in playing house with you and accidentally kissing you passionately.” He's huffy and snappish. It sounds like he's not even trying to understand. It sound like he's dismissing me. It sounds like he's cut his emotional ties already.

Silence.

“Playing house? That's what we're fucking doing? Playing house?” My voice wavers up at the ends, reedy and desperate for as much as I'm trying to keep it smooth and emotionless and steady.

He slams a fist into the door and I jump, jolting forward. “Come on Jason, I didn't mean it like that-”

“Stop calling me Jason, okay? You don't get to fucking call me Jason. I'm Violet.”

My mind is spinning, racing, tripping, falling, falling, falling.

No matter how hard I try, there's no stopping this downward spiral. There's no stopping the blurry shapes, the faded edges. Somewhere along the line, a boundary was crossed: the boundary between Jason and Violet. The boundary between me and she. Between him and her. Between fake and real. Between lust and love. Love? My head throbs and I clutch it desperately. There's far, far, too much and it's much too fast, much too soon.

“Your name is Jason isn't it? So I'll fucking call you Jason all I want to.” I can hear his fingers twitching against the door. Tick, tick, tick.

“No. No, you don't. Call me Violet. Because tomorrow, when this is over and you are free and I am alone, I can throw Violet away. I can throw her away and her feelings won't touch me anymore. Violet is sitting in your family's guesthouse. Violet sleeps in your bed and tosses her hair and sucks at skiing. Violet is-Violet is, she's falling in love with you okay? Her. Not him. Leave Jason out of this. Becuase if you stab Jason in the chest, there's no amount of apologies or patches or hot glue or distance that can fix him. Just go downstairs Matt. Go downstairs and pretend like this none of this ever happened and I will be ready for the ball tonight, I will smile and bat my eyelashes and act like none of this ever happened. I will help you, because I promised. But you don't call me Jason anymore. Because if I lose Jason, I lose myself. And we both know that. You've ruined Violet. Don't fuck the rest of me up too. So go downstairs. I'll be ready for the party at five.”

There's another long silence. His fingers twitch against the door. Ticktickticktick. He needs a smoke.

“Open the fucking door.” His voice is low and rough and gravelly and angry. So, so angry. I freeze, weighing out my options. “I said, OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR.”

I spring up and unlock the door with a gulp, retreating to the corner in case he goes fucking crazy.

He slams it open and stalks in. His jaw is set, his eyes are fire.

“You have no fucking right.” He spits, clenching his hands into fists. “You have _no_ _fucking_ _right_. Break you? I did no such thing. Nothing happened here that you were not aware of, that you were not in control of. I am not a monster, okay? Yeah, I'm a little fucked up, but everyone is. You are too, you asshole. You're as much to blame for whatever the hell this is as I am. You've been parading around all fucking weekend, waving your ass and fluttering your eyelashes and pouting your fucking lips and looking beautiful asking me to fucking kiss you. So yeah, I did. I kissed you, sort of a lot. Because you're fucking beautiful and you're right there and I think I sort of love you too so just fucking stop with this 'acting like none of this ever happened' bullshit. Because it happened, goddamn it. It happened and it's happening right now.”

“You are unbelievable.” Love? I want to take those fucking lies and shove them so far up his throat that he chokes on them. “You honestly expect me to believe that you care about me? Beyond this weekend, beyond this _easy availability_. I'm just another warm body, Matt. Tox is a warm body. So is Santino Rice or Kurtis Dam or Michael Sanderson. Don't think I don't know it. Don't think they don't know it. I was stupid for agreeing to this at all, and I'm even more of an idiot for letting _this_ fucking happen.”

“Tox?” He shouts, face red, veins in his neck twitching. “What the hell do you think you know about Tox.”

“That you're fucking him. What else is there to know?”

“Fucking shit, Jason. No. we aren't fucking. Tox is the only friend I fucking have, okay? He. . . he helped me through a lot of shit when I was younger. A lot of shit that I couldn't fucking deal with on my own. So back off of him, okay?”

A cold laugh twinges in my chest, resonating down my spine.

“Oh, yeah. Boohoo, it's me, poor little Matt with my poor little ten-million dollar childhood.”

“SHUT UP!” he roars, slamming his fist into the wall. Plaster and paint flutter to the ground in a little blue-grey flurry. “Shut the fuck up. You know nothing about me, or my childhood. It fucking sucked, okay? It fucking sucked but I am doing alright. We are all doing alright. We will all be fine.” He's heaving, panting, breaking.

He's right, I know he's right, but the cold seeping through my veins is far too much to ignore. There's a monster breaking out of my chest and it's leaving no bone unbroken, no feeling unshattered, no survivors standing in it's wake. I bite back my empathy and let the vile bitterness ooze out of my mouth.

The monster heaves and rears it's ugly head.

“You're a fucking mess, Matt. A fucking mess. You're all a fucking mess. Your mother is an undiagnosed bipolar psychopath, your brother is an alcoholic, your sister is nowhere to be fucking found, I'm beginning to suspect that no one has seen your father in a long time, and your cat is dead Matt. Your cat is fucking _dead_. And I'm a hundred percent sure that your mother killed it. How many other things has she killed Matt? How many of your toys has she burned? Who's to say that I'm not the next one? I've had enough. I want out and I want out right fucking now. Before this shit gets any worse.”

He freezes. The stricken look on his face tears a tiny hole into me. He staggers backwards, clutching onto the doorhandle for support, tears welling in his eyes.

And then, without another word, before more of the disgusting truth can seep from my lips, he's turning, he's fleeing.

He's running from me like the evil fucking thing that I have become.

And I'm crying so hard that I can't even hear the desperate sounds that are pouring out of my mouth.

What the hell have I done?

I love him.

I told him the truth. The truth that neither of us was ready to hear.

I love him. But he does not love me, he cannot love me. Do I even want him to?

What the hell have I done?


	8. matt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt's PoV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there darling people. Just another friendly reminder that this is fiction! None of this is real, none of this is even remotely based off of real events. I just use the names and the character traits, everything else is completely a figment of my imagination. The idea for this chapter was inspired by the beautiful, lovely and extremely supportive Huruhara. Matt's PoV was something she suggested and something that I just really, really had to write. Enjoy and please, please, please don't sue me. <3

I can't seem to blink away my tears so I let the cold air do the job. Too good of a job, maybe. The wind whips my face so hard that I sort of stop feeling anything.

I can't remember the last time I cried. Maybe when I was twelve and a "Pray the Gay Away" program flyer got slipped under my door with the silent threat to butch it up and get a girlfriend.

The way to Patrick's room is familiar. I haven't stepped foot in this house in three years but nothing much has changed. New wallpaper, new paintings, same cold floors, same dripping secrets. The décor has shifted to fit my mother's seasonal moods, but the feeling is the same. It feels big, uncomfortably large, airy and vacant. Like a pair of shoes that are two sizes too large. It engulfs, it shifts and pulls and drags you along and it leaves blisters and raw, open wounds where it touches your bare skin.

My feet just keep moving, one step after the other. The faster I move, the closer I get to the liquor stash that's hiding in his closet, the farther I get from Jason, the less I have to think about what just happened.

For once I'm glad that Patrick's room is in the far wing of the house. It means I don't have to walk past my old room.

Patrick's room is large and empty, just like the rest of this fucking house. There's a thin layer of dust over everything but his bed, his drugs and his booze. A tiny alarm goes off in my head when I see the bag of fine white powder and the row of small needles lined up on his bedside table. But I swallow and do what I have always done, I grab a bottle and leave. I gave up on him a long time ago. About two years after he gave up on himself.

We all cope with this in our own ways. Lorelei likes boys, credit cards and flashy things. Patrick likes booze. Booze and now this, I guess.

My coping mechanism has very quickly become Paul Jason Dardo. It's pretty fucking twisted, that.

He'll be gone tomorrow. And then I won't ever be welcome here again. Because tonight, I will look into my mother's eyes and tell her what she knew all along.

That I will never be the perfect son she always said I should be, that I will never carry my father's mantle over my shoulders, that I will never make up for her years of mistakes, that I will never, ever, be who she wants.

But, she gave up on me a long time ago, didn't she?

Tomorrow, the lie will be over. Tomorrow, I will be free.

\- - -

The shadow of my father's absence is looming. Jason's sharp words drill into my skull, over and over and over and over. The row of needles on Patrick's bedside table glint ominously whenever I close my eyes. My mother's harsh anger stings like salt in my wounds.

I slosh vodka down my throat until I don't have to think about anything anymore.

\- - -

Tox isn't surprised to see me. Or if he is, he hides it well.  I'm swaying on my feet, weaving and wobbling, one sip too much of this vodka sloshes and singes the lining of my stomach.

He doesn't say anything when I beg him to fuck me until I can't feel anything. He looks at me with his large brown eyes. He blinks once, twice. And then he nods.

This isn't a new thing. Patrick has his booze, Lorelei has her credit cards, I have my own small rebellions.

Tox feels familiar, easy. He's not what I want, but I can forget what I want when he kisses me.

Which will just have to do.

\- - -

Afterwards, I smoke, staring at the sprawled clothes, the empty bottle, the embroidered carpet. Tox is staring at me. His eyes are hungry, greedy. But he doesn't dare act on it now, he knows what this is. He knows how this ends.

“I like your new hair.” I smile sadly, pressing the cigarette to my lips.

“I missed you.” His face is sad, reverent. He reaches for me but I duck away, taking another drag from my cigarette.

“I can't Tox.”

“I know.”

“I'm sorry."

“You don't have to be sorry. We deal. This is us.” He shrugs, hiding his pain behind a thick shield of indifference.

I know that look. I know it better than I know the skin on my palms.

“I could have helped you,” he whispers, hiding his face in a pillow as I creak to my feet and start pulling on my jeans. “You should have asked _me_ to help you.”

It doesn't surprise me that he knows. He always knows more than he lets on. We're two regular pros at hiding, he and I.

I shoot him a crooked grin, crushing the cigarette into the carpet beneath my now booted-foot. “The difference between you and I Tox, is that I learned to live without this,” I gesture to the decadence, the luxury, the waste that's dripping from the walls of his room. “You haven't.”

A frown flickers over his face but he says nothing because I'm right and he knows it. It's not my job to pressure someone into being outed because they're in love with me.

He's in love with me.

Has been since we were twelve and huddling in the closet. Since I told him, tears in my eyes, that I didn't like girls. Since he whispered that he didn't either. Since we were fifteen, exchanging sloppy handjobs in the restroom of the latest pacific island resort our parents had dragged us to for the summer. Since we were sixteen and discovered the wonderful, medicinal qualities of marajuana. Since we were eighteen, when I left and he didn't.

He's in love with the idea of me. I'm all he knows, the only boy he's ever kissed, the only boy who's ever kissed him back. He needs this though, he's never weaned himself off of the money. I love him, but I don't _love_ him. I want him, but I don't _want_ him.

It's complicated, but it can't ever happen. Not while I want to live my life as Matt James, proud and strong and unashamed when all he wants me to be is shy, scared Matthew Lent who can hide in the closet and keep his mouth shut until he inherits his family's dirty money. I can't ever pretend to be that boy again.

Toxxie has always been a little too good at lying. We all are. It's just something you pick up on and learn to imitate after a while.

I leave without another word.

It's going to hurt him, but it's better to hurt becuase of the truth than hurt because of a lie.

\- - -

I've always seen Jason. He's always been there, whether he wanted to be or not.

First, out of the corner of my eyes. Then, from behind a ballcap and a cigarette. I saw him every day on my cigarette break after third. He would stroll across the quad, arm in arm with a wide-eyed boy with plush lips. They would whisper and giggle and flash their glinting teeth.

He walked like a dancer, graceful and with purpose. He laughed with abandon, his head tossed back, his hair swinging.

I stayed away, kept my distance. For the most part.

He was a shiny diamond, I was a boy with shaky hands and a black smudge for a past.

The funny thing about diamonds is that I can never seem to stay away from them for very long.

The funny thing about shaky hands is how easily they let things fall between the cracks in their fingers.

I've always seen Jason. I've always wanted him. But maybe it was more about what he represented than anything.

I guess that's what I was thinking when I, uh, _borrowed_ him to help me. Maybe I figured that if I spent enough time around him, I could drive the image of him from the backs of my eyelids. It's not that way at all.

Now I have echoes of his laughter ringing in my ears, traces of his smile glinting in my own, his smell lingering in my nose, the sweeping feeling of his lips ghosting across my skin.

Now he's burrowed so far into my brain that I'm afraid I'll never be able to shake him off.

He thinks he can help me. No one can help me. But the funny thing about Jason is that he's going to try anyways.

And the funniest thing is that I'm going to let him.

He's going to break me when this is over. He's going to break me and he won't even realize it. How do you break something that's already broken?

I'll give you a hint: It's pretty fucking difficult.


	9. devil's den

I'm lying on the bed, face-first in a soggy, tear-stained pillow, when Matt bursts into the room.

He's been gone for hours and he smells like the child of a barfly and a sex-addicted homeless man who takes baths in bottles of hard alcohol. I wrinkle my nose.

“Vile-let,” he slurs angrily, propping himself up against a chair as he sways.

“Outta my house Vile-let. Be outta my house.”

I raise an eyebrow. I can smell the vodka from halfway across the room.

“Outta,” he mutters, working his brow together furiously.

“Fine,” I stand, raising my hands in the air.

Our shoulders brush as I pass him and he growls, swinging a sudden and highly uncoordinated fist at me. I duck away, dodging his lazy punch by a foot.

Of course the bastard is throwing punches. Of course. Of course he thinks that this is my fault now. Of course.

_What is it that they say about drunks Violet? That drunken actions are sober thoughts._

“Not fair Vile-let,” he spits as I march towards the door. “Not fair.”

Not fair is fucking right. None of this is fucking fair, but you don't hear me complaining about it, or getting completely shit-face wasted and tripping around and throwing sloppy punches because of it.

No, this isn't fair. But this, I know, is how Matt has been taught to deal with his problems. This is it, right here. A bottle or two of hard liquor and an even harder fist.

My spine shivers and my bare feet ache.

“Jase,” he whispers in a moment of sudden, drunken clarity. “Jase, please. M'just-”

But I'm gone before he can get another word in likewise. I've had it with unfair.

\---

I need to do something and I need to do something fast.

I need to get the fuck out of here, is what I need to do. I need to be gone, out, flying far, far away. It's time this little tweety bird broke out of this golden cage and booked it for freedom. I've had about enough of catering to his every mood swing, his every whim. I'm fucking done with him, basically.

I tip-toe upstairs and grab Matt's cell from the bedside table. He's passed out on his side, lying in a pool of his own vomit.

I sort of wish he had just choked on it. But then I think of dorky smiles and happy laughter and warm kisses and I push that thought deep, deep down where it will never bother anyone ever again.

_He brings out the worst in you._

Maybe he does but lately he's brought out the best, the bravest, the strongest in me too.

I fumble over his phone password for about five minutes, trying everything under the sun from weed to mattie to 6969. My heart cracks a little when I realize that it's 'Pearl'. His cat. His dead fucking cat.

No, you will not. You will _not_ feel guilty. You are banned from feeling guilt, _forbidden_.

The numbers are too easy to dial and my conviction is strong and steely but I still manage to feel guilty as hell. Danny picks up on the second ring.

“Fuck off Matt.” Danny spits and I jerk my head a little. How does Danny have Matt's phone number? And why doesn't Matt have his saved?

_Because good old Mattie boy probably had a one night stand with your best friend/roommate and then dumped his sorry ass._

“Um, no. It's, uh, Jason actually.”

Or they worked on a school project together. Or something. 

"Jason? What the fuck are you doing with Matt James's cellphone?” I could ask him the same, really.

“It's a long story.”

“I have time.”

I bite my lip.

“No you don't bitch. Trust me. Where are you right now?”

“Azusa with my Ma n'Roy, why?” I can practically hear his hand settling on his jutted hip. Fuck, fuck, fuck. There goes escape plan A.

“Fuck. How long would it take you to drive to Denver, Colorado? Theoretically speaking.”

“Denver? What the hell? You're supposed to be in Atlanta. And you know I don't know what the fuck theoretically means. What's going on Jason?” Danny's voice is strained, bristling with anger.

Okay, Jason. Time to shut down this inquisition train before it leaves the station.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. Just forget I said anything. Have a nice holiday, okay chola?”

“Wait, Jason! What the fuck is going on? Jason? Jaso-”

And then I hang up.

Yup, I just strapped a sack of dynamite to that train and blew it the fuck up. Probably caught the train station on fire too. I gnaw my lip. Danny doesn't take to kindly to being played. He's surely currently pissed as fuck. He'll understand later, I tell myself. He has to.

I shakily dial Roommate Brian without a second thought to the dozens of voicemails that Danny is probably pouring into Matt's inbox right now. I can't afford to let myself feel any guiltier than I already do. And god knows that I have plenty of things to be to be guilty for, but anything about this situation is not one of them.

Roommate Brian. If there's one person I can count on to drop everything and help me, no matter the inconvenience, it's him. He owes me, you see.

“I'm lost and I need you to pick me up, no questions asked.”

There's a staticky silence and then: “Where?”

“Denver.”

Another longer, staticky silence and then: “I'll be there tomorrow morning.”

“Love your guts.”

“You'd fucking better.”

And then he hangs up and I sneak back up the stairs to replace Matt's phone where I found it and quietly pack my bags. If I casually slip the red dress into my duffel, no one notices. No one is really keeping score, after all. No one but my battered ribcage and Mr. Oh-look-I'm-so-charming-I'm-lying-in-a-pool-of-my-own-vomit-and-tears. But their opinions don't matter in the slightest, so I take the dress anyways.

No one will miss this dress. And if they do, they can buy about ten replacements without even digging deeply into their pockets. If you can forget about your own son for three years, you can forget about a red cocktail dress for-fucking-ever.

\- - -

I need to see his room.

I can't explain it, I just do. Maybe it's my weird, final desire to try and fix him. Or to at least try to understand where he's coming from. I don't really know why, but I need to see it all the same. I put on a skirt and a blouse and ask a cowering staff member where it is with my nicest, kindest smile.

It feels dead, empty. I don't know why I expected it to feel any different. Maybe i'd expected the whole Little Orphan Annie deal, with 'Hang in There' cat posters and sadness sprawled all over the walls.

There is sadness, but it's a different sadness, an emptier sadness. The kind of sadness that lasts forever. The kind of sadness that's easy to re-paint but hard to ignore. The kind of sadness that no one can see but everyone can feel. The worst kind of sadness.

The only clue that a boy lived here at all is the little ratty sketchbook on the bedside table. It hasn't been touched in years; a thick layer of dust has settled over it. I know I shouldn't read it, but I've always been bad at following social guidelines and basic rules of courtesy. I don't have time for manners and flowery speech and niceties.

I flip it open to the first page. Harried lines and words and smashed together sentences line the page like veins in a broken arm, sliced open and bleeding blue-black ink everywhere:

_There's something powerful about leaving._

_I wish I could love him as much as he loves me. It would be easier to hide with him than to cower in the open like a lonely dog._

_I should have just fucked her and been done with it._

_If heaven is for brenda because she loves my father, then I would rather burn in my homosexual hell._

_I'll miss Pearl the most when I go. Cats don't try to make you happy because of your trust fund, they don't hang out with you because of your father's name, they do it because they want to and nothing more._

 

_sunsets_

_are_

_like_

_promises_

_beautiful_

_and_

_golden_

_and_

_lost_

_and_

_soon forgotten_

  

_cut_

_on my finger_

_a drop_

_of_

_blood_

_wavers there_

_squeezing_

_lemon into_

_my drink_

_lime_

_juice_

_stains_

_my hands_

_fuck_

_this_

_hurts_

 

_the key to life is being dead or asleep or oblivious. which am I?_

_I think patrick raped another girl. How are you supposed to tell if they always cry and tell you not to talk about it?_

_I want to kiss a boy. One that wants to kiss me for more reasons than my ass and my availability._

_Brenda hates Pearl. Her white fur gets on the drapes sometimes._

_I hate Brenda._

_I'm people watching, wishing I was being people-watched._

_I will take everything with me when I go. everything but the most important thing--_

Before I realize it, hot tears are blurring my vision and dripping down onto this notebook.

This is him, I realize. This is Matthew James Lent, the good, the bad and the ugly, poured out in flesh and blood onto these ragged pages.

This must be so important to him, so very, very important.

For the life of me I can't figure out why he didn't take it with him when he left.

\- - -

It's not fair, I know, to leave Matt here, in a stupor, to deal with his mother. Because he is in no shape for the christmas ball, and I'll be damned if I'm going to be responsible for dragging his sorry ass out of his vomit puddle and into a suit. I change out of my skirt and into some sweats and a baggy t-shirt and request directions to the master bedroom in the main house.

In this moment I am Jason, but I am Violet too. I think I'm sort of starting to understand this.

Brenda Lent is about to meet Paul Jason Dardo. I made a promise to help him, and goddamnit, I'm going through with it. Even if it kills me, which she very well might.

 _Might as well get nice and comfy Jase, cuz shit's about to go down_.

\- - -

Matt's mother is lying on her bed, wrapped in a silk blanket, when I march into the room.

"Brenda Lent. I'm Jason Dardo, alternately Violet Chachki."

Her mouth falls open and she fumbles with the wine glass in her hand, spilling wine all over herself.

"Open your mouth as far as you want to, scream for security as loudly as you want to, cry for your children to come save you as much as you want to. They can't hear you, Brenda. Your daughter is in Europe, and your sons are passed out. One with heroin, one with booze. Be creative."

She cowers into the covers, a picture of vulnerability, all wrinkles and thin skin and overdone botox. She looks like a grossly contorted baby bird. I want more than anything to grab her and crush her wings beneath my fingers.

"I'm not going to hit you, as much as I fucking want to, and there's very little physical damage I could do to you, but I want you to listen to me and listen to me closely. Because, darling, I know what you are. You, Brenda, are a world-ruiner. And don't think I don't know it, because until a while ago, I was one of those too."

I watch the words hit her and her mouth opens and closes, once, twice. She's trying so very hard to deal with this. With me, with her sorry excuse for dignity and pride. She recovers, drawing her plastic lips up into a tight sneer. I bristle.

"How dare you sneer at me? I am the same, the very same, person you met two days ago. I'm not wearing a dress and I'm wearing a little less makeup, but that's it. That's the only difference between me and her."

She remains frozen, a deer in headlights. I charge onwards.

"Want to know something funny? Something really funny? We were going to out him publicly, tonight at your merry christmas shit-fest. We wanted to watch the shame hit your face like a fucking eighteen wheeler. But, you know what? You don't deserve that public humiliation. No, you deserve something much, much worse. You deserve guilt. The quiet guilt of knowing, as long as you live in this palace, swaddled in silk fucking blankets, that your children are assholes, shitty and miserable and broken because of you and your missing husband. You wreck lives, Brenda. You wrecked theirs. I want to wreck yours so badly that it physically hurts me. But that's too easy for you. That's way too easy."

I pause, gasping a thick breath into my charred lungs. "Come tomorrow you probably won't remember this. You'll swallow your bipolar meds, ingest your oxycotin, chug your wine by the bottle, do whatever it is you do to keep yourself sane in this fucking hellhole. And then, somehow, you'll make yourself forget that this even happened. Who knows, maybe you'll forget that Matt even exists. You certainly did a bang up job of that with your husband, didn't you? But mark my words Brenda Lent, one day your time will come. One day all this world-wrecking and life-ruining and soul-crushing that you do so easily will come falling right back down on you. One day you will cry and scream for help and no one will come. One day you will be buried alive in the weight of your own crushing sin. A sin so crippling that you'll manage to forget that your own son is a walking, talking, shameful sinner who happens to like dick instead of pussy."

She winces and oh god, I want to jump for joy.

"And trust me, I know _all_ about sin. I was an out gay boy at a catholic high school."

She sneers again, looking me up and down. I step forward, pointing my finger at her chest.

"One day, Brenda," I spit. "You will die. One day, all your feeble power will be gone. And when that day comes, you will have to answer for what you have done to those children, what you have done to that man that I love.”

“You don't love him. Your kind doesn't even know what love means,” she snarls, hands wedging into tiny fists around her blankets.

I smirk dangerously, letting my hand fall to my side. “If you knew what love felt like you wouldn't be alone in a mansion filled with ghosts. If you knew what love felt like maybe you would grow a fucking heart and learn some compassion. If _you_ knew what love felt like, maybe Matt would too.”

Her face contorts into a mask of fury. I smile and waggle my fingers. "I won't cause you the shame of having to walk a little gay boy to the door. Goodbye Brenda. I hope you fucking burn in hell you horrible cunt."

And then I turn. And then, I leave.

I hear the wine bottle shattering against the door and the anguished scream that follows it but I don't even flinch.

As I walk back to the guesthouse I hold my head up high.

If this were a cheesy action movie with trope-y characters, a questionably original plot and an overdone villain, the whole fucking world would be going up in a montage of slowly exploding orange-red flames behind me.

And I really wouldn't have it any other way.


	10. hi, bri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is rotating pov, hope it's not too confusing, enjoy. sorry, it's a bit of a filler :)

(Matt)

I'm lying in a pool of vomit.

Everything hurts, my arms, my chest, my head.

If I didn't have any memories of what happened to me today I would think that there must be a jackhammer drilling into my skull.

But there's not a jackhammer, it's just me. And I do have memories of today, as much as I wish I didn't.

 _Be outta my house_.

Careful what you wish for

\---

(Jason)

I'm half expecting Brenda to climb out of a cupboard and claw my eyes out when I pick up a housephone and call a cab. My hands shake as I grab a fistful of hundreds out of a slim suede handbag that's been tossed on the kitchen counter. I don't allow myself to feel guilty. Is it really stealing if no one will notice it's gone at all? Definitely a question I've asked myself a hundred or so times over the past few days.

I'll be damned if I'm spending the night in this house until Brian comes for me in the morning.

I have to get out of here or I'll go fucking crazy.

I wait on the porch with my duffel, watching the snow flutter. The cab arrives and when I leave I don't look back. It's not any easier.

I drag myself into the hotel and toss the money at the woman behind the desk wordlessy. I pray that it's enough because it's all I have. Still though, I'd rather spend the night on a park bench in the freezing cold than lock myself back into that cage.

It's enough. She hands me a key card with a tired smile.

It's only when I open the door and fix my eyes onto a set of the second ugliest curtains I have ever seen, that I begin to cry.

Matt would fucking hate these.

\- - -

(Matt)

Jason is gone. It hurts more than it should.

I still have to talk to my mother, I still have that final act of defiance left in me. I feel like I'm floating underwater.

I can still smell him. I can still see him twirling around in his tiny red underwear with a sly smile. I can still feel him, warm and willing beneath me.

I stare at my car keys and think for a long, long time about driving until I find him, because how far could he have gotten, really? But I know it's no use, I have no idea where the fuck he's gone.

But I can't just give up. I spring to my feet and hobble to my bedside table, the world crashing and spinning and blurring together all around me. My phone. He must've broken out of this prison cell somehow.

Thirty missed calls, twelve voicemails. I scroll through my notifications with wide eyes. The second I see the number I recognize it. Danny.

 

_“What kind of pipe dream is this?”_

_“Just once. It'll be good for both of us. Roy will notice and get pissed, so will Jason. C'mon Noriega it's a win-win.”_

_“M'not a slut.”_

_“I know, neither am I.”_

_“Try telling Jason that. He'll laugh in your face.”_

_“It's better he be laughing in my face and jealous of his roommate sleeping with me than hating my guts and keeping me at a very far distance.”_

_“You have a strange way with logic.”_

_“It's the weed.”_

 

“Jason? What the hell Jason!? Where the fuck are you!?!” Danny's usually slow and smiling voice is harsh and sharp.

“Hi, Danny? It's me, Matt.”

\- - -

(Jason)

I'm lying on my back watching some vapid television show. It sort of sucks but I'm not really thinking too much about it. My epic takedown is still hot and fresh on my mind.

 _I hope you fucking burn in hell you horrible cunt_.

Yup, that pretty much sums it up.

There's a strange, hungry ache in my chest and for as many cheetos from the snack bar (that I don't intend on paying for) that I jam into my mouth, I can't seem to get the grumbling to stop.

Maybe little Matt had it right. Maybe there is something powerful about leaving.

I turn up the volume on the television set and try to drown out the cacophony of bitterness and pitiful thoughts that are swirling around in my head.

I fall asleep to the wonderfully enlightening noises of a catfight between Kim Kardashian and Kendall Jenner.

\- - -

(Matt)

“Matt? Matt James? Where the fuck is Jason and what is fucking happening?!?” Danny is shouting now and I pull the phone away from my ear with a wince.

“Hi.” I repeat, once the frenzy on the other end has narrowed down to harried breathing. “I was wondering if Jason told you where he was going?”

There's a sharp intake of breath, and then: “I'm not fucking talking to you. Where the hell is Jason?”

I snort. “Fuck if I know.”

“He called me an hour ago, from your cellphone, and asked how long it would take me to drive to Denver, Colorado. Where you are from. Any reason for that Matt?”

“Uh, nope. No, no reason. Sorry.”

Danny sighs, long and drawn out. “Just get him home safe, okay?”

“Okay.”

“And if you know what's good for you, you'll stop fucking around with my best friend. Because we both know that he deserves much better than your sorry ass.”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “I know.”

\- - -

(Jason)

“Brian?” My voice is soft, shaky. “I'm at the Holiday Inn by the wolf statue.”

“Be there in ten.”

Click. And then I wait, staring listlessly at the walls.

A hear a distinctive honk. It's Bri.

I drag my duffel outside and to the car and Roommate Brian swings it up and into the backseat. He proceeds to collect me in a swift hug.

“Hey cunt,” he whispers into my hair. He smells vaguely like cigarette smoke, fresh paint, and dusty curtains. He smells like home.

“Hi Bri,” I shoot him a small smile.

I clamber into the front seat and he slides behind the wheel, and we're off, leaving Denver behind us in a cloud of snowy dust billowing up from our tires.

About thirty minutes of listening to the radio in silence passes and he reaches out and switches off the dial.

We crash into silence for a few minutes. He takes a deep breath and begins.

“I know I'm pretty much the last person you want to take advice from but I'm just going to put this out there, okay? Talk about it or not, something happened in Denver, and you seem sort of upset about it. So yeah, just either tell me what happened or don't. Fuck, I don't know. It just sucks to see you like this and I'm not going to ask questions but you can talk to me if you need to.”

I nod slowly, picking at the skin near my cuticles. It takes me a while to decide to speak, but when I do speak, it's just a projectile vomit of words and feelings and messy, messy emotions.

“I, uh, went to Denver. With pirates? They may or may not have kidnapped me and forced me to come with them. And I may or may not have pretended to be an alien so that the pirates would think I was evil and then I told the pirates families that I was really human to spite their asses. And then shit blew up and, um, here we are.”

Roommate Brian just taps the wheel and nods.

“Hmm. . .” He says, a mischievous smile lighting up his eyes. “Okay. That sounds fake, but okay.”

I hide my grin in my elbow.

“Fuck you,” I mutter, shoving him in the side.

“Hey!” His eyes widen into saucers. “What did I tell you about touching the driver, Jason Dardo!”

I roll my eyes with a smirk. “That blowjobs are the only form of touching that is considered morally and socially acceptable.”

He grins and leans over to pat my shoulder.

“You learn fast, babe. Now if you're so determined to touch me, you'd better get to work.”

I lean back and howl. We laugh wildly for a while, until the car starts shaking and swerving because Brian is pounding on the wheel so hard. Then we collect ourselves and calm the fuck down.

"But seriously," he murmurs. "I can help."

"Later, Bri. We'll talk about it later."

He nods and I smile a sad sort of smile and we just keep on leaving.

This is wonderful, it really is. But still, there's something missing.

Something large and warm and sleepy, with a peircing through his nose and fingers that twitch for cigarettes and a hazy glimmer in his eye. Something that I want more than anything.

Something that I can never, never have again.


	11. aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i stayed up almost all night to write this and you fools are welcome <333 thanks for the oodles of support and love this fic has received, it's almost finished, never fear :^}
> 
> don't be afraid to come and talk to me on tumblr, I love hearing from you ^3^

The rest of my winter break is spent fairly uneventfully. A few awkward hugs with mom and dad, a couple of ruffles to little sister's hair, some worn out excuses, exchanging some crappy, half-assed gifts.

I'm not trying to pretend that I didn't stare out the window for hours on end, waiting for someone who would never arrive. But, for the most part, it just was what it was.

I guess Roommate Brian put it best, when he dropped me off in front of my parent's house with another hug and a salute, “Put it behind you. Talk to me if you need to, but try to put it behind you."

Put it behind you, easy enough said, but it's another thing completely to do. I'm going to miss him for ever, I think. Not Bri, he's like family and fungus. I couldn't lose him if I tried. 

Matt, I'm going to miss Matt. Fuck, I hope Brenda didn't murder him in his sleep.

\- - -

Second semester of sophomore year just sort of happens. One day I'm at home with my parents, pining over some idiot bastard that I was dumb enough to sort-of like, the next day I'm hugging Max and fist-bumping Other Brian and Roommate Brian is ruffling my hair and Danny is pouting and punching me in the arm because “Why the fuck have you still not told me what happened you motherfucking cunt?!”

And so tell him I do, little snippets of stories that just sort of fall out of my mouth and land on the floor.

“You know, I went home with Matt for his parent's Christmas party.

“He actually kidnapped me and forced me to go with him, because you know I hate his guts, but don't worry! I agreed to help him later.”

“He had a horrible childhood.”

“We made out? Maybe.”

“I sort of like him. But I also sort of fucking hate him, so there's that.”

Danny's eyes widen marginally with every tiny detail I let slip. Bigger and bigger and bigger until the day he tells me, in the smallest and gulitiest of whispers, “I slept with him.”

The calc homework I'm busily scribbling all over comes to a crashing halt.

“What?” I choke over the words. “You were mad at me for not telling you what happened, when. . . what?!”

He shrugs, jamming a pizza crust into his mouth. “I wouldn't be too worried. The fucktard just wanted your attention.”

My attention, I think. My attention and my jealously.

I'm sort of flattered, except for the fact that when he finally had my attention _and_ my jealousy he made an ass of himself and did his shitty, asshole-y, dickwad things and pushed me the fuck off. Or maybe it was the other way around?

I turn back to my calc homework. And I don't try to think about confusing things any more.

And Danny eats his pizza and doesn't try to either.

\- - -

I'm on my way back from the club some Saturday evening when I see it.

There's a note on my doorstep, crumpled and ragged. It's been erased and re-written and erased and re-written over and over again because the faintest of pencil marks curve and slash all around the dark scribbled words in the middle. It smells exactly like a forest fire. My hands shake.

 _Thanks,_ it reads. _Thanks for everything._ The distant tone and the slanted letters crush a vice around my lungs.

I crumple it up and jam it in my pocket and try to ignore the fact that there are tears pricking in the corners of my eyes, and the fact that I'm turning my head, spinning and gasping as I search for the person that left this here.

I know who left it here, I do, I swear. I'm not looking for him to know who he is, I'm looking for him because I just need to see him again. Just once, just one more time.

\- - -

I see him out of the corners of my eyes. I always brace myself for contact, for a tease, a jab, a sparkle, a hug, a smoldering kiss. But nothing ever comes.

I remember vividly what I told him “I want out and I want out right fucking now.”

What I wouldn't give to take that fucking thing back. Surely he didn't take me seriously. Surely.

But he just smokes and stares at me blankly, and I just grit my teeth and charge forward and away.

Things have changed.

At least his mother didn't kill him.

\- - -

Three long, hard months have passed, not like I'm counting, when there's a knock at the door.

There's a knock and then a twitchtwitchtwitch.

It's him. My pulse roars in my veins.

Bri looks up from netflix on the couch, Danny is nowhere to be seen. I give a small wave and step to the door. I open it, try not to fall dead because of what I see, and then close it swiftly behind me.

He looks different, his cheeks protrude more, his eyes sink into his skull. His nose ring glitters, his eyes hold fast to mine.

He speaks first, all in a rush. “Hear me out. I wish I could take it all back. I honestly do.”

I bite my lip so hard I taste blood. “I'm sure,” I snap.

A fire glimmers in his eyes and his brow twitches together.“Don't be trite.”

I laugh, a tiny, cynical thing. “I'm not trite, I'm angry.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” I roll my eyes.

“No regrets, right?” He sounds nervous, shifty.

“You just said you would take it back.”

“But I can't. And anyway, justification is good for the soul.” He tries a tiny smile, but it shrivels and dies.

“You're an ass.” I cross my arms over my chest and brace myself against the door frame.

“I know.” He sighs, palm pressed against his face. His voice sinks low, dipping into some kind of shitty emotional quicksand that threatens to pull us both under.

“This is going nowhere.” I snark from my new perch, desperately trying to clear my head and remind myself exactly what it is that I'm doing here.

“I know.” He sinks even lower and my heart twinges.

“Why are you here?” It's short and sharp and supposed to be a distraction but the sadness in his eyes when he pulls his head up to stare at me wistfully is distracting in quite the opposite way.

“Honest?” He whispers, wavering.

“Honest.” My voice is softer, kinder.

“I wanted to say goodbye.”

“What the hell?” I snap, body suddenly tense and alert.

“School,” he shrugs. “I can't pay for it without the trust fund.”

Everything comes crashing to a desperate halt. His future, his education, the way he lives, everything he has is gone. _Gone_. Because of me. I falter, drowning in the ocean. This is one horrible potential consequence that I really, really didn't think through. His fucking mother, his fucking shitty-ass horrible cunt of a mother. I should have killed her. I really should have just put a gun to her head and fucking killed her.

“God, that, that, that--. Wow, I'm-I'm. Sorry. I'm so, so sorry. Do you have to go?” I blubber, simultaneously reaching my hands out to him and shrinking back against the door.

“Yes.” He sounds tired, finished. It hurts me to hear this so much more than I ever thought it would. “I thought you were mad?”

“I am. I love you.” It sneaks out from between my lips and explodes in the air, crackling like fireworks against a crisp night sky.

“I know.” He presses his lips together in a thin, white line.

“I shouldn't.” I gasp, my chest heaving.

“I know.” The line is thinner still, his brow is heavy, his eyes are unreadable as he speaks.

“Do you love me?” I choke, rushing forward to press my face into his neck.

“Honest?” He rumbles.

“Honest.” I cry.

“I need you. I don't love you, I need you.” He stares at the floor, his jaw working, his fingers ticking against my side.

I don't know which is more dangerous, love or need, but both seem pretty fucking terrible right about now.

“Obviously not enough.” I pull myself off of him and spin away. I have to burn this bridge and I have to burn it fast, before I get swept underneath it and destroyed by the troll that lives there.

“That's not fair.” He bites, eyes dark.

“ _This_ isn't fair. You just ignored me for three months and then you show up on my doorstep to tell me that you're leaving? Who the hell does that.”

“You're right.” He sighs again, rubbing his temples, leaning back against the far wall of the hallway.

“Aren't I always?” I smirk.

“I am genuinely sorry.” He says it softly, and I know it's true, but I can't help but resent him for it.

“Screw you. You can't apologize for three months of radio silence in one night. It's ludicrous.”

“Maybe so, but I can try. Really hard.” He scrunches his face up into a mockery of a tight grimace, grits his jaw and squeezes his brow together.

“You suck.” I laugh.

“Pretty much.” His voice is suddenly sad, steady. This is his own personal truth, that he sucks, that he knows he does. It's what he believes about himself and it hurts, it _hurts_ me, so very, very much.

There's a silence.

“Not really.” I try, reaching out for him.

He pulls away, pressing himself even harder against the wall, running a hand through his hair. “Trust me, you don't know the half of how much I suck.”

“I do.” I demand, shifting my feet.

“And you love me anyways.” His eyes shine stupidly and the corner of his mouth quirks up into a smile.

“Yup. Dumb old Jason Dardo loves dumb old Matt James.” I laugh a little, he laughs a little.

We fall into silence just as easily as we fell out of it.

“I should go.” He mutters, toeing the ground.

“Alright."

“Alright.”

“I'll miss you.” It slips out of my mouth and slaps me silly and lands in his hands like a bird with a broken wing. His eyes widen and he stares at it like it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

“Like you miss oxygen?” His eyebrow arches in a familiar way.

I snort. “You're rich.”

He smirks.

I wince. _What the hell, Jason. You're rich?_ “See you soon.” I mumble, clinging onto the doorjamb like it's the only thing saving me from drowning in an ocean of my own making.

“Maybe.” He gives a small wave, his other hand already digging into his pocket for a cigarette.

And then he's gone. I don't try to stop him, or beg him to kiss me, or ask him where he's going, or try to get his phone number, or anything.

He leaves and I do nothing.

It's in this moment that I realize that I will never, ever see him again.

And boy, oh, boy does that hurt like a bitch.

I turn away, step inside.

Roommate Brian is standing in the centre of the room. His arms are outstretched, his face is open, willing, ready.

Here is what I know. I will run to him, hug him, cling to him, really, and then I will tell him my story.

And I know, too, that he will listen, that he will hold me, that he will try his best to help.

But there really isn't enough help in the whole world that can undo what I've done to myself, what _he's_ done to me.

But I know that Brian will try all the same and I truly love him for it.

This is the end, I think, as I throw my sobbing self inside. This is the end. The other shoe has dropped, the axe has fallen, the drive by was just that, a drive by. Here for a moment, ripping into my chest with all the force and sudden power of a bazooka gun, and then gone, leaving me bleeding and broken and falling to shreds. Gone so suddenly, so painfully.

And to think, I didn't even say goodbye.

I love him.

He's gone, and this is the end, but at least I can take comfort in the fact that he knows that I love him.

_Goodbye, Matt. I love you. Please, please come back._

_Goodbye._


	12. epilogue

(two years later)

“He’s a fucking bastard!” Danny shouts, jamming his fist in the air.

“He was always sort of a dick,” Roommate Brian nods his head affirmitavely.

“If I may,” Max purses his lips as he sips his cocktail, “I never really approved of that young man.”

I roll my eyes. “Obviously. Andre was a total flake and a major asshole. I dated him for six whole months, remember? I don’t need you fuckers to tell me that he was a complete loser.”

Other Brian tips his head back and laughs and Danny leans over to clap me on the shoulder.

“Atta boy,” Roommate Brian smiles.

“Bastard’s got his priorities straight,” Danny’s long term boyfriend of three years flashes a dimpled grin. 

“Another round?” Max leans forward with a dastardly twinkle in his eye.

“I second the motion,” Roommate Brian grins, pounding his hand down on the shaky bar table, causing beer to slosh and spill everywhere. Max sighs and shakes his head as Roommate Brian retracts his hand with a sheepish grin. “I’ll pass,” Bri mutters, nursing his own glass of water.

“So tell me,” Other Brian mutters, suddenly serious. “If you knew Andre was a loser, and you broke up with him, what the hell are we doing at O'Halligans on the Tuesday before exams?”

I shrug. “Festivities. Nickle shot night. The fact that I’m a single man.”

He laughs again and another round shows up, truly a gift from some very generous alcoholic god.

A sudden tug on my bladder spurs me into action.

“Look, I’m glad you are all enjoying the celebration of my newest dead relationship, but I have to go to the bathroom, so move the fuck out of the booth.” I bat my eyelashes sweetly and Max and Other Brian slide out.

O'Halligans is crowded and smells a little bit like a dumpster, but it sure beats eating ice cream straight from the container back at the apartment.

_Which you really should be doing, like any normal teenage girl._

Shortly after sophomore year, the four of us (save Danny and Roy who lived in their own sickening love nest) had rented a large studio apartment and decided to live off-campus and commute to school together. And sure, it’s true that Andre was no prince charming, but he was my fourth failed relationship since the Matt-tastrophe that left me extra-cynical and definitely pretty fucked up.

Ruin every relationship that you touch for two years and you start to feel more than a little shitty about yourself.

My fingers twitch against my belt as I push through the swinging door and into the dimly lit, very sticky bathroom. Force of habit, I guess.

I’m standing at the farthest urinal from the sink, zipping my fly and pondering my apparent complete un-date-ablility when there’s a tap on my shoulder.

I tense up and ball my hands into fists, fully preparing myself to nut-kick some crazy stalker when said crazy stalker speaks.

“I hate to bother you, but I have something to ask,” an awfully familiar voice rumbles from crazy-stalker. “Did it hurt?”

I turn around, heart pounding sharply in my chest. Two years. It’s been two fucking years of absolutely nothing, and here he is, in the bathroom at O-fucking-Halligans. Matt fucking James.

His hair is longer, scruffier. His face is a touch more tan than normal, his eyes are jovial, mischevious. His septum ring glints faintly in the dim light.

“What,” I choke, trying to gather myself as best as I can. “Did it hurt when what?”

“When you fell from the sky and broke my whole fucking world?” His teeth flash as he strikes a match against the cigarette perched between his fingers.

“Y'know?” I smile, brushing a stray strand of hair from my eyes, “It sort of fucking did.”

\- - the end - -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is so surreal, my sincerest thanks to everyone that read this. you'll see more from me very soon. <333


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